Run
by my-interesting-penname
Summary: "When I say run, run." As a person who has been running all her life, those words should not have sent a chill of relief down Irene Adler's spine. But they did, and she was saved. However, how could she consider herself saved if her the very fabric of her existence has been altered? All she can do is run, and now, that's all Sherlock can do too. Post S2.
1. Chapter 1

"When I say run, run."

As a person who has been running all her life, those words should not have sent a chill of relief down her spine. One would expect that hearing those words would have quite the opposite effect on her. However, when your life is just about to be abruptly chopped out of you with the simple, swooshing slash of a sword to the neck, you wouldn't mind doing the same thing you've been sick of doing for most of your life one more time when instructed to do so. Especially one the instructions come from the world's only consulting detective.

Irene Adler wasn't one to stare a gift horse in the mouth, especially when the gift horse came in the form of the only man that ever beat her, yet is somehow now apparently trying to save her life. She heard a sharp, swift slicing sound very close behind her, followed by a painfully anguished yell. The sharp, very strong rusty stench of blood filled the air around her, and it was paired with more sounds of angrier, louder, and more urgent yelling. A small smile crept up on her face, and a rush of an emotion she couldn't quite make out coursed through her. Whether it was one of relief, happiness, or smug satisfaction at the affirmation of requited sentiment, not even she herself could tell.

Suddenly, she felt herself being gripped very tightly on the arm by cold, slender fingers, and was abruptly pulled up onto her bare feet and out of her trance of thought. Quickly recovering from her shock, she twisted herself around to stare into the icy blue eyes that she was just imagining when she thought she had closed her eyes for the final time, awaiting the end of her life. She was glad to see the real thing, though, because her imagination did those eyes no justice.

"Would you care to start running, Miss Adler?" Sherlock said, and his voice sent her mind into a whirlwind of memories. She turned her head to see a mass of black-clad men running as the yelling behind her kept getting closer and less pleasant by the second. She didn't say a word. Annoyance swept on to Sherlock's fine, angular features as he said, "Alright then," and became pulling her along with him.

And so they ran.

She could feel the bottoms of her feet, still sensitive even after all the running she has done throughout her life, being scarred and torn into bloody shards of skin as Sherlock pulled her away from death. And so they ran. And ran. And ran.

They ran until the bloody red of the rising sun filled the sky above them. Till she stopped feeling a sting in her feet. Till the piercing yells in the harsh foreign tongue she didn't quite understand; the language in which she was just read an intelligible sentence in right before having the phone, that she used to send her last text to bid the man who had brought her to her demise one last farewell, snatched out of her hands, became more and more muffled with every dull step she took. Till they suddenly came to a stop after making a sharp turn to enter a dark alleyway.

Her eyes took time to adjust to the sudden dullness that so differs from the brightness of the shocking daylight she was pulled into and, suddenly, out of. Just as her eyes started to adjust to the lights, so did her mind to the sudden predicament she found herself in. How could she have let her sentiment get the best of her again? She studied his expression, while he was studying hers, and the old, buried humiliation that she felt a year ago, when he unlocked the one thing that she guarded with her heart, resurface painfully. Oh how stupidly sentimental and vulnerable her heart is. Too bad that thing she protected with her vulnerable sentiment was the only thing that saved her from being vulnerable in every other aspect of her life. And now, after she let her embarrassing sentiment slip for what she thought would be the final time in her life, it turns out that she wont be dying after all. All thanks to the man that triggered her biggest fatal weakness and brought on her downfall in the first place. Oh, the bitter irony.

"It is true that disguises are always a self portrait. Even if the disguise is forced on you by someone else" Sherlock stated, mirroring what Irene told him upon their first meeting in that smug voice Irene tried very hard to forget. However, it didn't fail to make her ridiculous heart to skip a beat, just as her heart skipped when she ripped the little white strip out of his shirt collar, stripping him of his disguise. She immediately knew what he was talking about, and ripped off the burka that swallowed her entirety up which her captors forced her into. How becoming is it for the most talented dominatrix that the world has ever seen, who almost brought the planet's top men to their knees, to be covered up, to be muted, to be hidden in both fear of someone recognizing her, or in fear of how her actions of the past may infringe on their religious beliefs if they did not shield themselves from setting eyes on her oh-so dangerous body. So they simply covered up her presence, her existence, in a suffocating black cloth.

She was playing the part of the defeated, weak woman before; when she was faced with what seemed to be inevitable death. But now, she has been set free by the man who pushed her in front of death's blade in the first place.

She will not be pushed anymore.

She appraised Sherlock's appraisal of her, as his appraisal of people in this manner was custom. The little smirk that was playing across his angular lips contrasted the minuscule frown he had on the first time they came face to face, when he couldn't analyze a single aspect of her being, her composure, her thoughts or her intentions. This struck what little pride she had left that was just smothered within the darkness of the burka and the looming threat of death. Its funny how just when you feel safe, you lose all the earthly fear and humbleness that you felt crashing into you when you were faced with your end.

With a serpent like suddenness, she struck. She twisted that burka that imprisoned her around Sherlock Holmes' marble neck and pushed him back against the dusty wall of the alley he pulled her into. His ivory face started to go blue as she increased the pressure right under his jugular, completely cutting off his flow of oxygen.

"What a..stra-ange way of saying...thank...YOU" Sherlock stuttered, finally managing to push Irene off of him. As he keeled over, gasping for air, he could only hear the soft receding patter of Irene's bare feet running away from him.

"Damn it" He said, leaning on to the dusty wall she had just pushed him on to for support. He couldn't blame her for running. She is quite clever, and he knew it. But he couldn't let her. If he were to let her go, saving her life would be for naught.

With that mental statement, he took a deep breath and ran off after her into the busy streets of Karachi.


	2. Chapter 2

Irene pulled her burka right back on her head and ran straight to the most crowded place within range, and weaved her way between the masses of people who are going on with their daily lives and buying supplies for their home in the ramshackle farmers market that Irene headed towards. She quickly spotted a cart carrying a load of oddly colored cloth slip-ons. She internally thanked her lucky stars and discreetly walked past the cart, slipping a pair into the waist-band of the lower part of her burka and hurrying away quickly. She hid behind a mother who was quarreling with her numerous children and slipped them on. By covering her bare feet, Sherlock will definitely loose her tracks. That's if he caught up with her in the first place.

She looked up to see everyone staring off into the direction she just came from. Sherlock is apparently a very fast runner, and is something to be gawked at. Men who look like him don't often pop in around places like this. Although such a slip-up in disguise was uncommon of Sherlock Holmes, Irene knew people weren't usually their normal selves after being chocked till their blue. She turned around to continue running, but she found herself slamming face first into a dark-suit covered chest that she knew all too well.

"Are you going to force me to physically impale you, Mr Holmes?" Irene muttered. She felt more like her provocative, dangerous self after she ran off all the fear that the adrenaline poisoned her courage with. The feeling of adrenaline that was pumping in her veins now was one that gave her a familiar sense of power and danger. A familiarity that she has long missed and has not realized she was deathly thirsty for.

She turned around to get a glance of what led her to miscalculate Sherlock's whereabouts to see, and smell, a cloud of orange rising over a cart that was previously overflowing with piles and piles of powdered curry. She couldn't help but feel impressed with his quick thinking, but she abruptly halted her awe by reminding herself that this awe is what put her in Karachi in the first place.

He gave a short, dry chuckle and took her forearm, gingerly at first, which shocked her into not reacting. However, before she had the chance to respon as her shock at his sudden odd tenderness faded, he swiftly flipped her it over and stabbed her with a needle that she immediately recognized. One of her own. She felt the ground under her newly shielded feet start to wobble, and she muttered, "Oh how fitti-"

Everything went dark.

The first thing she could sense was a feeling enveloping her that she hadn't felt in almost a year: comfort. The next thing she could sense was the wafting smell that reminded her of home: freshly brewed tea. She slowly opened her eyes and they were immediately accosted by a fading orange light. She heard a rustling movement to her right and immediately wrenched her eyes shut.

"Care for a cup of tea?" Said a familiar deep velvety voice. Of course he knew she was awake.

She sighed internally and opened her eyes, appraising her surroundings. It appears as though Sherlock has taken her to what appears to be a very lavish hotel room, by the feel of the bed she was lying on. The irony in her life does not appear to be waning after she was saved from impending doom by Sherlock Holmes. Maybe this is the price she will eternally have to pay for evading death until she finally meets it once again.

She sat up to get a better look at the luxury she suddenly found herself in. The furniture was all covered in velvet. There was a floor to ceiling window that looks out into a very old-looking city set between the confines of huge mountain walls that were also visible through the window. The bed she was laying on was indeed soft. Very soft and pillowy. The walls were also pillowy, as they were covered with a cushioning as well. They reminded her of the very powerful clients she used to service, who always seemed to like that type of walling. She had a special room in her house with the walls covered in cushions. They were even similar in color to the ones on these walls.

A pang went through her heart as she remembered her old London home, but she suppressed it. No time for sentiment, even if it came from lamenting the loss of a perfect home. She cant have her sentiment mess her up like the last time she let her sentimental ways meddle with her success. Look where it got her now. In a hotel room with the great Sherlock Holmes. "On second thought, sentiment might not be so bad after all." She said to herself, smirking on the inside.

She was then startled out of her thoughts by Sherlock handing her a dainty china cup on a saucer, and she looked up at him, not saying a single word. She raised it up to her bare, chapped lips and took a sip. The tea was bitter, sugarless. Just how she liked it. Is she so easy to read that he automatically knew how she liked her tea? Irene Adler is not the kind of woman who likes feeling predictable, so she straightened up and gulped down all of her tea, not paying attention to how scalding hot it felt traveling down her throat, or to how she cannot feel her tongue. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't stay in a place where she has no control over anything, especially after the way she spent the last 2 months. She couldn't stay in the same room with him, because the way he makes her feel never brings her anything but grief.

She then set the tea cup and saucer down on the little neat dark-maple nightstand to her rights and threw the fluffy duck-feather comforter off from around her. She grimaced to see that she is still in the skirt of her burka. With a graceful pull, she tore it off herself and headed to the open wardrobe, pulling out one of Sherlock's purple button up shirts, and a pair of his trousers. She studied the contents of the closet as she pulled them on. By the state of the neatly folded piles of wrinkly, obviously used looking clothes at the bottom right corner of the little closet, she could tell that Sherlock has been in this room for at least two days.

She shut the closet, turned to the door, and turned around to give Sherlock one final smile. He was seated in one of the big, fluffy-looking armchairs, with his cup of tea still in hand. He appeared to be oddly expressionless.

"Well, it was nice seeing you and all, Mr Holmes, but I've got a few things to attend to" said Irene, as she tried to pull the room's door open. It opened up a bit, but then wouldn't budge, which is odd for a hotel room door. She looked to the top of the door, where a door chain is typically located, and tried pulling it unsuccessfully open to see that something jamming the it shut. She shook the door again. Nothing. Oh, how clever of him.

She should've foresaw this, as spontaneity is something to be expected of her, especially by Sherlock Holmes. She let out a sigh weighed down by her bottled exasperation at the continued irony of her entire present situation. She can't take this much longer.

"Having trouble, Ms Adler?" Sherlock said smugly, taking another sip of tea.

"Like hell I am!" She exclaimed, losing her cool. Since she cant escape, the next best thing is for her to gather as much information as she can. The last time she tricked Sherlock into giving her all the information she desired worked up until the part where it stopped working for her. "I figure its worth a shot anyway" she thought as she walked up to him in his clothes. She was stepping on the bottoms of his trousers as they were way too long for her short frame, but she didn't mind as she knew that it would irk him. An irked man is easier to hassle into giving up information.

"Why the hell did you save me if you got me into all that trouble in the first place?"  
"You're forgetting that you got me into trouble first, Miss Adler. I was just evening the score."  
"By what, sentencing me to a sure death?"  
"Well, I did save you. This is just me evening out our score once more. However, Miss Adler, you seem to be forgetting that you only lost because you let sentiment muddle your judgement pertaining to the one thing that could have given you everything you've ever worked for."

Silence.

"I'm all safe and sound now. You did an excellent job, and our score is quite evenly settled, Mr Holmes. Thank you for your kind bravery and all that, now let me leave so we can keep our bloody score even. I have things to do." She took another step closer to him, holding her little hand out.

Sherlock only scoffed and took another sip of his tea. So Irene snatched the dainty tea cup from his ivory hands.

"The key." She said pointedly. Sherlock only looked up at her and squinted his slightly. She looked him in the eye right back, with his tea still in her hands. They remained in this state for about 15 minutes till Sherlock broke the silence.

"I'm very sorry to say this, Miss Adler, but I simply cannot let you leave."


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh really. And why the hell can't you?" She said, her voice dripping with hostility.

She plucked his tea cup straight from his marble hands and threw it all the way to the other side of the room, her mind whirring with questions. Does he think he can take more from her than he already has simply because he saved her life like she was some pathetic damsel in distress? She can only condone being thought of that way when she's playing the role to get what she wants. And this is not the case of what is happening right now. She would rather die a thousand deaths than let the man who pushed her onto her death bed, well rather dirt floor, than be saved by him just so he could keep taking more and more from her.

He narrowed his cold eyes in the direction where she chucked the tea he seemed to be enjoying paired with annoying the wits out of her.  
"If you were to stop being so irrational, I might just be able to get to the part where I inform you why I cannot simply let you leave this room. Unless you would like to end up in the state that you were supposed to be in right this second if I hadn't saved you."

"So you honestly think that I could not have got myself out of being apprehended and sentenced to death by a mob of imbeciles who only amount to anything in this God forsaken place because they all can work together while firing a gun or two if I had any desire to do so?" She spat. Sherlock was about to reply, but swallowed whatever he was about to say. He turned his gaze to her, with his eyes filled with something she could not recognize. This is driving her crazy.

Putting aside how she felt, she took a quiet breath to calm herself in an effort to not let him know that he's setting her on edge, although her throwing his cup of tea across the room might have been a slight giveaway. She gingerly set herself down on the armchair opposite to his and crossed her legs, leaning back into the chair and crossing an arm across her torso. His eyes raked her body just as they did the first time they encountered each other. They both couldn't help but internally note how the tables have turned since then, and they both felt quite differently about this obvious change, yet neither showed it on their faces. They both glared at each other with a stony, unimpassioned intensity; both waiting for the other to make the first move.

They continued in this manner till the sun completely set in the window behind Sherlock, when he finally was the first to speak.

"Miss Adler, you are a fairly intelligent woman, I must admit."  
"And I must admit you are quite good at noticing the intelligence of other, Mr Holmes." Her voice was oozing with blatant sarcasm.

"That is the only reason why I am going to go through explaining the situation we are now both in to you is because I respect the intelligence you have, Miss Adler-"  
"If you're trying to tell me that you do not owe me anything, I am very well aware of that fact, Mr Holmes. But do carry on." She felt stung by his complete disregard of the way she decimated him a year earlier, as they both know who would've won that battle if it hadn't been for that one, silly little slip up of hers.  
"I want to give you a completely clean slate, however I cannot ensure that unless you cooperate with me completely."  
"I am also well aware of that fact as well, Mr Holmes, but if you could cut your useless prattle to a minimum and get to the important bits, we could get done with this a lot faster."

He broke the eye contact that they have been holding for about a half hour, turning his gaze to the wall behind Irene for a bit. His face then dropped into a very annoyed expression, and he immediately put his face in his hands.

"Oh good God, how could I forget that stupid little detail?" He muttered to himself. He then suddenly sprung out of his seat, swung his armchair to the corner behind him and hopped up on the cushions. Irene, alarmed, quickly turned around to glance into the mirror behind her to see Sherlock smash the surveillance camera that has been recording his every movement since he checked into the hotel in this place, where it was of the utmost importance for him to never be seen by anyone, into a million smithereens.

"Smooth move, Mr Holmes. However, I like disabling cameras in a different way. One that doesn't include bashing them to unsalvageable bits. Saves you from paying for the damage later." She said smugly, as now it is her turn to be smug. He isn't as unaffected by this situation as he makes himself appear to be. As a man who definitely doesn't want to be seen in this place, at this time, he shouldn't have made such an immense mistake as this. But he did. He must've been quite nervous about his entire plan since the moment he set foot in Afghanistan to save her. That made her feel a strange, inexplicable bounce of joy in her abdomen.

He hopped off the chair and started pacing the room, his eyes seeming to travel everywhere at once. He suddenly dashed to the door and studied it, probably looking at the little map on it that shows guests where the nearest fire escapes near to the are in the state of an emergency. Irene watched his tall, willowy silhouette appreciatively. She may despise her savior, but that won't stop her from appreciating a good old fashioned bum when she sees one.

He then dashed over to the opposite side of the room, almost trampling Irene's tiny, scarred feet to get there. She tucked her feet underneath her as she watched him forcefully pull open the window that logically shouldn't open as it was so big. It seems as though this hotel is just begging for a giant lawsuit. Sherlock leaned backwards to stick his head out of the window to study the roof of the building, leaning his backwards-facing palms against one of the cushioned walls for support. With that, Irene saw her chance to escape. He cant seem to stop making these silly little mistakes. Poor Mr Holmes.

She quietly snuck up his side where he definitely couldn't see her, her little feet not making a sound, and in one deft, experienced move, pulled his wallet out from the pocket. She slipped it into the borrowed pair of trousers she was wearing and pushed down on his chest, shaking him downward.

He let out a shocked yell as she pushed him farther out the window, and said, "I can't say I'm particularly sorry to see you go, Mr Holmes. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do!" She watched his jet-black curls dance around in the mountain wind appreciatively for a second. But little did they both know that a few months from then, a scene quite identical to this would happen, but its outcome would be ever so different.

She positioned herself to issue that one, final push that would in turn, push her towards her freedom. But just as her muscles started to move, she felt a push backwards. She felt herself fly. She felt herself close her eyes. She felt herself land, hard. She felt a stiff body atop hers.

Her eyes flew open to see the very same eyes she saw right before she saw when she shut them for what she thought would be the very last time.

"I can't have you throwing me out of windows now, can I Ms Adler?" He grumbled. He didn't move though. He stayed on her for a while. They were both quite shocked.

He then sprung up in an agility not uncommon of him, and pulled her up onto her feet with him.

"Well, are you going to help me cover your dirty tracks so we can finally be rid of each other?"

However, deep down inside, they both knew they didn't want to.


	4. Chapter 4

After Irene simply ejected the security footage tape for their entire floor and slipped it into her pocket, they both snuck out back into the lobby and on to the elevator going unnoticed as the room was still in an pressed the button numbered 58 and the elevator lurched upward. He took out his wallet in search for his extra room key, but he couldn't find it between the 10 pound bills and the odd fake ID card. Irene took it out of her borrowed trousers' pocket, pulling of the top-half of the burka she was wearing. He looked to her to see her fiddling with the plastic rectangle, looking smug and a bit less wearied, donned in his clothes and a smirk.

He reached his hand out for it and she shook her head. He mentally noted that the disguise she has on now is the most telling self portrait of all, as they are quite alike. The elevator dinged open on their floor and she rushed past him, strutting quickly to the room, with him following close behind. She opened the door and entered, and he followed her inside in one stride.

"Now will you tell me whats going on?"  
"Nothing is going on. Now that all the loose ends have been tied, I can send you on your own way and go back to mine." He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking of his blazer and setting it neatly beside him.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you do not tell me what's going on, I will beat the living daylight out of you, and don't you think that I would hesitate for a minute." She straightened herself up in order to appear more dangerous. He turned his eyes up to meet hers, and they glared at each other.

They remained like that until he broke the silence.

"I cannot be seen with you, especially not by anyone who would report back to my imbecile brother. And knowing his line of work, that could be anyone at all. I only saved you because no one is allowed to get the best of me. Not you, and especially not my brother. He thinks he can pull one over on me, however, if I get the best of him, even if I was the only one to know it, I can die a happy man." He stated dully, leaning his back down on to the bed, rubbing his temples. He was reviewing his painfully ingenious plan in his head, which he knows shouldn't have been troubling him so as he has carried out far more complicated and dangerous plans than this one. But who's to say he wouldn't muck it up if he forgot as silly of a detail as the surveillance camera in his own hotel room. He also knew it wasn't going to be easy. Especially now that he's seen her.

What was _really_ dangerous was how he felt about being in the same room with her before she was actually physically present in the room, and how he's even more nervous with her tangibly here in this little enclosed space. He invested too much time and energy in this to let it go awry. He can't let sentiment mess it up now.

Irene watched him think, gently sitting down in the same arm chair where she watched him watch her hours before in a deadlock of wills. But this time, her watching him resembled the first time she did it about a year ago. She was watching him as he was intently focusing on what he does best, thinking. She is still convinced that brainy is the new sexy.

So they sat in silence. She fell asleep. He didn't. He carried her to the bed and set her down on it gently, gingerly. He studied her sleeping face and, to relieve himself of the foreign emotions surging within him, allowed the walls behind his eyes to be disassembled for a brief moment; he looked at her with worry, care; with what would appear to be tender affection. He appraised her entire body more analytically now, unafraid of her watching him watch her as was the case when she was awake and hostile, ready to attack. She looked bony. Brittle. Weak. This was very unbecoming of her; it made something pang in him with a bitter resonance resembling guilt. Sherlock never feels guilty about anything. And judging from the way she strangely behaved when he saved her, the atypical state she is now in is obviously due to the circumstances she was put under when the terrorist cell abducted her from what he knew was her very secure hiding spot in Brussels. He was quite surprised when they found her, surely just as much as she was.

But unpredictable things happen to those who think they've set their lives up in a way where they left no room for the unknown to strike. He was one to know it.

If Mycroft, or even John, were here to see this, they would certainly be as shocked as he feels with the emotions that have, for the third time in his life, overtook him. Drowned him even.

This wasn't something he was used to experiencing before he met her.

The destructive whirlwind that is the Woman destroyed his defenses, and have opened up the flood gates of sentiment which drowned his better judgement against saving her. Sherlock may be one to believe in upholding equity, but those who smite him almost never survive.

He couldn't have that happen to _her, _however.

So now, here he is. In Kabul, with the Woman who could have decimated every ounce of credibility he has ever been able to muster in his line of work; every drop of respect for his uncontrollable and unmatched intelligence which was the only thing he ever really could count on. Strangely, though, he didn't regret it. Sherlock is a fast learner, and he is quickly learning that sentiment can make one do the most unreasonable of things. Like forget to disable a security camera in a place were it is of the utmost importance for no one to ever know he was there.

That is why he has to stick to the plan, no matter how curious he is about what would happen if he didn't.


	5. Chapter 5

The minute Irene opened her eyes the next day, she could sense that she was completely alone. She bolted upwards and scanned the room. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. She sprung out of bed, still in his clothes, and headed straight to his closet. He couldn't leave without his belongings. Or maybe he could to play a cruel joke on her, to make her believe that he is still here, waiting for her.

It was empty, except for a neat little pile of black clothing, topped with a little, full-looking black leather bag and a pair of red-soled black stilettos.

She pulled out the items Sherlock left for her from the closet where his things were, sorrow trickling through her veins, crippling her heart, making it painfully puncture with disbelief deeper and deeper with every beat it took. She set the things on the empty bed that he set her in, then let her in, glaring at it as if it was her mortal enemy. She paced the room a few times, trying to let this all sink in. Her rescue, then her sudden, immediate, and somehow foreseeable dumping. How could she not see it coming?

She exhaled, straitened up, and went back to the bed. She picked up the dainty little black leather purse and shook out its contents. Out of it dropped what appeared to be a credit card, a familiar looking ring, a small black nylon zipper bag, a pair of cat-eye sunglasses, and a white piece of paper. She snatched the last item to fall straight off the bed.

"_Ms Adler, _

_ I have left you with the means necessary for you to find a way to rebuild a new life for yourself, including a startup kit. However, with what I have left you, you hopefully will not be able to build a life resembling your previous one. If you were to ever garner that much power, we might be forced to butt heads again, and I imagine you wish for that to never happen again just as much as I do. I trust that you will follow the instructions left on the back of this paper, as I know you value your security just as much as I value my own. You might not feel as though any wish for good luck in your future coming from me could possibly be genuine, I do really wish you all the best. _

_ - SH" _

With that, she put on the black, knee length dress that was left for her. She inspected the diamond ring. It was hers: the one she wore back in her dominatrix days adorned with the tear-shaped 3 carat diamond. She slid it on shakily, and opened up the little nylon bag, then brushed its contents over her face to give her some color. She coiled her hair up off her face. She slid on the red-soled black stilettos. They hurt her scarred feet and reminded her of the first time she ever tried on high heels. But she swallowed her discomfort, dusted off the burka top, and slid it on as per Sherlock's instructions. He never gave her the information she wanted so badly, and she might never get any proof or validation for any of her deductions, including those pertaining to his true feelings about her. She will never truly know why he saved her. But now, with this, she did not care to know any longer.

Alas, Irene Adler was a woman who typically does not follow instructions, but when her life is on the line, she follows whatever instructions she is handed. Especially if they ordered her to run. So she slid on the sunglasses, folded his clothes that she borrowed and will seemingly never returned, and stuffed them in the purse along with its prior contents, and walked out of the room.

_  
**_AN: _**

**_Hey guys. I hope you like this so far. Review it and stuff, I like feeling the loooooove. Plus, I need your criticism, both good and bad (Although, I prefer the good over the bad, naturally). Thank you for reading!_**


	6. Chapter 6

All she could feel was dullness. A year and a half after she dragged her scarred feet, shielded by a fresh pair of stilettos, out of the country where she was tortured then saved, and then tortured once more, she still could not sense anything but the dullness enveloping her heart. This dullness matched that which she felt before she met that man for the first time ever. Yet this dullness was worse by far. She didn't have anything worth her while to pass the time, to pacify her. All she had was her laptop keyboard and a pack of cigarettes. She may have been good at feigning passion in the books she now writes to make her living, but that does not mean that any of that artificial fiery passion had the power to tickle her heart into feeling complete ever again. She will always be broken by the defeat that knocked her out and bared her neck to the sharp end of a sword.

She didn't know if she could ever feel anything, pleasant or otherwise, again. But she was about to find out.

It is a normal Sunday morning. She wakes up, flips over, sets her scabbed feet on the chilly, tiled floor. She leaves her colorless bedroom, and heads to her colorless kitchen. She starts the coffee maker, pours herself a glass of water as the coffee maker speedily churns out enough brown, bitter liquid for one. She hopes that the bitterness might finally, truly wake her up, as she does every morning. It never does though, not really. She takes the warm mug in her cold hands and walks to the colorless living room, gently taking a seat on the pale beige couch and grabbing her laptop. She opens her laptop's internet browser and scans her browser's home pages for any new news.

She spills her coffee all over the couch at the sight of a painfully familiar face that she sees in her head every night, paired with the world's most impossible words.

**"Britain's Greatest Consulting Fraud Commits Suicide" **

She shuts her laptop and stares into the now blackness of the wall in front of her. All she can process is the feeling of her heart exploding into a million shards, repeatedly piercing the inside of her thoracic cavity. She feels her insides stick together with the blood oozing everywhere from the inside of her chest. And then, nothing.

There is then a sudden knock on the door that pulls her out of her trance. Her heart skips a beat. She runs to open the door.

Her hands fumble d with the door handle, and it finally slid down. She swung the door open. There was a gasp.


	7. Chapter 7

And it was only the mailman.

How stupid of her. To let her heart feel anything. She used to be able to control anything and everything in her life. But her inability to control her heart will always be the thing that will bring her down, dragging her through the dirt as though the humiliation that listening to her stupid heart keeps bringing her isn't enough.

She took a deep breath and smiled at the friendly mailman, Tom, who handed her her mail and wished her a nice day. He bade her a good morning, but she could only give him a polite nod as she mentally berated herself over and over in her head. Her jarring insults, yet not as jarring as the broken shards of her heart settling in her empty chest, bounced around in her mind as she flipped through her mail, and a peculiar letter caught her eye.

It was from one Mr Holmes from 221B Baker Street, London, England.

Her mind started whirring into action once more. No. She has to stop. She made herself take a deep breath. Steadies herself. Shut her nagging thoughts up. Extinguished the little ember of hope that started up inside where the shards of her heart now lay before another, far more powerful and painful gust of wind blows it away into the abyss of dullness it had somehow successfully found itself floating out of.

She took a shallow breath, tucked the letter under her arm. and flipped through the rest of her mail. Ads, bills. More bills, and more ads. She forced herself to hope that she received something more pressing than the letter under her arm, that all the pieces of her shattered heart was throbbing to know what it said. Her stupid heart won once again. Its as though everything goes right for it, even though its now in pieces. Irene couldn't help but wish that her heart yearned for something different. Something less destructive.

She headed towards her now coffee stained couch and sat down. She set the other pile of unopened letters on one end of the coffee table, and the other letter she couldn't bear to look at on the other. She picked up the now half-empty coffee mug off the table, took a sip, and then another shallow, shaky breath.

In one, swift movement, the emotion dripped off her face as she snatched up Sherlock's letter and viciously tore it open. She peeled off the envelope, looked at the ceiling to mentally steady herself, then unfolded the piece of paper inside the envelope.

_"Ms Adler, _

_ I'm quite sure that you recall how I mentioned how both you and I probably never want to set eyes on one another ever again. You might also be wondering about why I sent you a letter by mail. However, I require some assistance, and this is the only way I can safely ask for it. Meet me at the Brooksberry Shopping Mall parking lot on Gardner Avenue on the 12 of March at 9:15 PM. Please don't be late; this is of the utmost importance. I promise you answers this time. You have my word._

_ -SH" _

"Today is the twelfth," she said out loud to herself. She glanced up at the clock to see than it is already 9:15 AM. She has a little less than 12 hours to fix everything about her life and make it look as if she properly got on, happily and unaffectedly. She can't stand to look pathetic to him; he didn't deserve to see her this way. She scrambled to her feet and ran into the kitchen, picking up a wet cloth. She soaked the coffee stain on the couch with it, all the while thinking of a way to amp up her life's appearance. All she knew was that she's better get to work

* * *

She used the brand-new credit card that she got herself under the name of Mary Smith, aware of the irony behind her, the Woman, the woman who almost brought the world to its knees, having such a bland name in her new life. It was a useful name though, especially when slapped on to the erotica periodic fiction books she now makes her living off of. How fitting it is for the ex-dominatrix to use her old professional experience to forge a new way to earn a living out of nothing. Well not nothing, really. And besides, she only used the millions she started making to buy herself some coffee, pay her electricity and internet bills, and buy hot take out meals from the nearest Whole Foods.

She was taken to this house that Sherlock had bought for her by the taxi he had arranged to pick her up after she landed in a small town near the nation's capital, where some of the big men in fancy suits she used to service all meet up together in ancient rooms, discussing their future plans on how they're going to cut the world up, and about who's going to profit, and who's going to lose. She could've been one of the top dogs if she hadn't let her heart get in the way of things. Her utterly spastic, naive, destructive heart. If she could rip it out of her body right at that second, or at any time, really, she would gladly have done it.

But she had bigger fish to fry.

She put on the dress Sherlock gave her, and slid on the stilettos on her feet that no longer felt any pain. She then went to the boutique she passed by sometimes, and bought every single vintage Chanel dresses that fit her, new Gucci dresses from the latest seasons' ready-to-wear collection, a new fur coat, an assortment of handbags designed by an assortment of names she knew well, and every pair of Jimmy Choo and Christian Louboutin shoes that they had in her size. She payed for them with her shiny new, unused credit card and instructed the cashier to have her new booty sent to her house.

She then drove off to the nearest car dealership, and sold her dinky Toyota Camry, and immediately bought a Mercedes S-Class with all the fixings. Next, she sped away to the nearest Ikea, bought the most dangerous, angular, and modern looking furniture they had, along with a few household accessories, including a new set of crystal wine glasses and champagne flutes. She then instructed the young cashier who checked out her stuff to drop everything, grab a few of his buddies, and go back to her place to get rid of her old furniture and replace everything with the new stuff she just bought using her old charm, slipping a wad of cash in his hand as well. From the way the poor kid started to sweat as he ran off, yelling for his co-workers to help him out, it was safe to say that she's still got it.

She then went over to the nearest Lowe's, bought an assortment of navy blue wallpaper to cover the colorless mass that will surely tip Sherlock off about how she has really been feeling. She wants to appear as if she's completely indifferent. She wants to show him that him saving her did not push her deeper into the dullness. After all, he put her in a position where she needed to be saved in the first place, and she will never forgive him.

She tipped the man in the Lowe's employee vest, who was gawking at her as she was trying to decide which wallpaper would make her look the most like her old self, to take 3 rolls of that wall paper off the shelf, grab a couple of his buddies, and go off to her address that she scribbled on his hand to cover every colorless wall of her house. She instructed him to apply two coats of it on each wall. His face pulled upward in a confused, bovine stare, but he gladly complied.

For her final trip, she hopped into her brand new car and drove off to the mall where in about 3 hours, the fateful meeting that she started turning her life around for was going to take place, confident that he wouldn't be there as the secret plane he hopped on to probably hasn't reached the States in the first place yet. She bought loads of makeup, perfume, and other adornments that she would typically have scattered all over her house, but didn't. She also bought a new set of black, lacy lingerie. It would be very out of place for her not to own a set of those. She also hopped by the Bed, Bath, and Beyond on her way out and bought the strongest smelling candles they had. She needed something to mask the new-everything smell, or else this clever disguise she put together to veil her real state would go to waste.

* * *

The cinnamon and musk smells of three candles burned down to the last inch of their wicks mixed together in a strangely sensual way and wafted though the house, masking the plastic smell of all things new. She took a sniff as she looked outside her ice-rimmed window at the fresh layer of snow that the setting sun's red rays were bouncing off of. Smells as good as its going to get. It's now or never. She slid on the ring he gave back to her, painted her lips red with a fresh stick of lipstick, masked her bare eyelashes with a black goo that made them attractively visible, and stepped into the stilettos that she refuses to acknowledge as a source of pain; she refuses to ignore the scabs she feels with every step she takes. She is now ready to be seen.

She stepped into her new black car, checking the time one last time before shifting the gears into drive. _8:52 PM._

She drove along, not a single thought passing through her head. She pauses at a stoplight, revs the engine when it flashes green, then speeds off towards the entrance of the Brooksberry Shopping Mall. The car's engine is roaring fearfully._ 8:59 PM_.

She reaches the mall's parking lot and stops. She closes her eyes, takes a small breath, and reopened them to peer at the ring that he gave her back as it sat there on her finger. She ripped it off and set it on her dashboard. She blinked, then put it back on. It was the only thing she needed to complete her image of being her whole self once more. She straightened herself up a bit, then looked out the window to see an eerily familiar willowy figure standing in the darkest spot of the lot. She wrapped the fur around her a bit tighter, holding herself in, as though reminding herself of the physical boundaries that are holding all her insides in. Reminding herself that she is here. In real life. It is not time for the dullness to resurface.

She stepped out of the car, her stilettos clacking on the icy floor. The willowy figure turned to face her, and she could now see that he's wearing his funny hat. She's always liked that hat.

Then, he spoke.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Hey guys! I hope you're liking this fic. I wouldn't mind it so much if you were to leave me your comments and stuff about what I could do to improve my writing, as I feel like I'm not doing such a great job at this. Anyway, have a blast.**

* * *

"Good evening, Miss Adler."

She didn't answer, she just kept walking. When she got closer, she caught a dim blue light bouncing off the sharp planes of his face from the side of her eyes, but she immediately averted her gaze further away from the vicinity of his face. She still wasn't sure if it really was him, and she couldn't look him straight in the eye to make sure of it just yet. She had to make sure she kept steady, straight. Strong. The last time he saw her weak and broken, he ran away as fast as he could.

She mustered up the little courage she had managed to forge within herself on the car ride to this spot; to this moment. She couldn't let him see that she is not complete.

"Mr Holmes." She said with a little nod, looking at a spot on the wall behind him. She then spun on her heels and walked back to the car. He followed her, as she knew he would.

He got to the car first and opened the driver seat door for her, and she hopped in without a word of acknowledgment. He then hurriedly rushed to the other side of the car and sat in it as she switched on the car's engine. He shut the door as she hit the gas pedal.

She drove out of the parking lot and in to the main street.

"Where do you wish to go, Mr Holmes?" She asked, although the answer was quite clear. He needed a place to stay for a while as now, its his turn to run. Why else would he send her a letter, vaguely requesting help, right after he made headlines by committing suicide. A suicide that he obviously faked.

He didn't reply, it was almost as if he wasn't there. Then something clicked in her head. Oh right, he committed suicide, and maybe he didn't fake it. This changes everything.

Maybe the letter she got was a figment of her imagination: her mind telling her stupid heart to wake up and get over it. Maybe her great mind was sick of not being used, sick of being shut out by the feeling of dullness her heart pumped through her on a daily basis. Maybe this was her brain giving her the wake up call she needed to go back to her normal life, as it was sick of the next sure surge of dullness that was about to hit her again after reading that blasted headline. Maybe it WAS all in her head, as her head was trying to reemerge into the glory it previously basked in once again. A head like hers wasn't one to like being tucked away, to be numbed, and this was just the sign it needed to get moving.

She had to be sure. She can't let her heart win, not anymore. The only real good thing she's done since her heart took over was go on that shopping spree that she could afford because her brain nagged her to make use of what she knows from her old life in securing a good life now, because her mind knew it wouldn't be able to go far with that stupid heart of her dragging her down.

So she looked to her side to get the final confirmation proving the new theory she just thought of to be true. But he was still there, and he looked a little banged up too, like he fell off a building. In that second, he turned his head from looking strait ahead to look her in the eye. And in that moment, she knew he was real. Her heart started beating once more, and her mind started whirring. She was wrong, he is real, and he is here. The dullness that masked her heart then burst, unleashing rivers of pure, unadulterated pain. Pain so potent that she winced internally.

"Well, Ms Adler, I was hoping you would be so kind as to possibly assist me. If you haven't seen it on the news yet, I've died."

"Where would you like to go?" She repeated pointedly. She wanted him to say it, out loud. He said he's never begged in his life, but since he's supposed to be dead now, he might as well start getting in the habit of begging.

"I don't think you understand the si-"  
"No, Mr Holmes. I do not think YOU understand your position right now. So get on with it, I haven't got all night." The pain waving through her body was making her very testy.  
"Would you, please, let me stay with you for a while until I get my plan sorted out."

Silence.

"What's in it for me?"

"Well, I assumed-"

She pulled the car over to the side of the road, her eyes washed with a sort of prickling torment that was threatening to seep out of her and drown the entire world.

"That what? That just because you happened to swoop in and save me in Karachi that one time that I magically owe you my life. I do not owe you anything, Sherlock Holmes. Nothing at all. You conveniently seem to keep forgetting that it was you who took away anything I could have used to keep myself out of that entire situation-"

"And you, Irene Adler, seem to keep forgetting that you forced. My. Hand."

More silence.

"I didn't hold you at gunpoint. I did what I do best."  
"And so did I."

She started the car again, and turned it around.

"If you want a place to hide out, fine. I suppose can give you that." And so she drove off surrounded by a cloud of silence intermingled with a certain volatile brand of confusion that was seeping out of both passengers in the car.

She pulled up to her house. He opened his door and hopped out, and so did she. She got to the front door, unlocked it, and walked in. She took a sniff. It still smelled like candles. Good. She then shrugged off her coat, opened up the coat closet, and hung it there, leaving it open for him to place his coat in it as well. She then strode off into the living room, switched on the lights, and turned around to look at the formerly great Sherlock Holmes in all his bashed, bruised, and cut glory.

He didn't feel all that glorious, though. And he was just about to feel a whole lot worse. He watched Irene's previously stony face; an expression that is so unbecoming of a person who's expressions where always so evident on her face, whether they were masks or not, as it melted into one of curious alarm. She took a step closer to him, and reached up to touch his bashed up face. He couldn't understand why she was doing this, he couldn't even understand why she was behaving the way she was in the car. Sherlock Holmes doesn't like not knowing what's going on; it's something he just was not accustomed too. She has baffled him since the day she met him. She's always been so damn hard to read! Maybe that's what drew him to her so strongly. After all, Sherlock Holmes loves a good mystery.

Then, she touched his face. Neither she nor he knew what she was doing or why she it.

His mind went blank. It had only done so a handful of times in his life. Coincidentally, she was present during all previous instances of this occurrence.

How convenient.


	9. Chapter 9

"You're hurt." She didn't know why she cared. Well, she had always appreciated beauty, and there's no shame in being disappointed when a beautiful face gets a little messed up, is there? That's what it was.

"Well, that does tend to happen when you throw yourself off a building."

Her lips pursed, and she strutted into the kitchen, leaving him standing in the living room on his own.. Sherlock took a look around to inspect his surroundings. The house smelled of cinnamon and musk, what an odd combination. He then turned to glance at the walls. They were a deep, navy blue color. They looked very clean, and they did not give him a hint as to how she spends her days. The looked new, very new. He peered up to inspect the uppermost corner to see the wall paper not having completely covered the wall, however, the visible coat was covering a similar one under it. However, from what he could tell, that coat looked considerably spotless as well. Why would there be two coats of fresh wallpaper on the wall?

Then, he felt a pang in his head. He probably should've tried to fall in a different way on to the what he didn't quite anticipate to be the very, very hard stone London sidewalk. He should've though, as he did anticipate the way events were going to transpire, and his assumptions were, as expected, right on target. He planned out every other aspect of this plot, but how could he not have found a better way to land on the damned sidewalk without almost cracking his skull open and actually dying? He felt a little dizzy, and subsequently keeled over a bit. So he grabbed a very angular yet plush looking chair to his left. Strange, it felt very soft, very new to his skin. Why would it feel so new? Just then, Irene came in holding a small white box in her hand.

"Sit down." She ordered, and he gladly complied as he started seeing black spots everywhere. He uncharacteristically plopped down on the very soft chair he was just leaning on. Irene took his chin in her small, cold hands and tilted his head up to her. He looked at her eyes, that looked guarded by a very hostile Siberian chill. They looked exactly how he remembered them, except they were blocked by a few pesky black spots that were popping up everywhere he looked. He blinked rapidly. She didn't notice how disoriented he was beforehand. Or maybe he just started to feel this way.

"Stop it, I'm trying to get a better look." She scolded, and he went perfectly still, his eyes fixed on her face that contorted in an expression mixed with worry, calculation, and another thing he couldn't quite make out.

"Whoever stitched up this scar on your head must not have the steadiest hands in the world," She remarked.

"Well, she usually just does postmortems." He mumbled, almost unintelligibly. Molly's horrified face popped into his mind. He did let her in on his plan beforehand, but it didn't seem that she thought he would look so banged up.

Irene dropped her cold hands from his alarmingly warm face and walked back. She pushed him into the chair, and he fell back with little trouble. He was getting worse and worse by the minute. Irene racked her brain for any possible explanation for his current state that is worsening by the minute. He couldn't possibly have a concussion, as even if he had a slapdash checkup as indicated by the poor stitching on his head. The person who did let him leave was probably not stupid enough to let him leave if he was this bad right from the start. However, some concussions' symptoms don't show right from the start. She's seen her fair share of concussions, being the cause of most of them, and the way he was acting right now definitely fit the familiar criteria of a concussed individual.

She opened up her first aid kit and took out one of the needles of a substance she has used on countless people before, including Sherlock. She had about 3 left, as she used 8 from her ten pack within the last 6 months to cope with her painfully sleepless nights. But she figured she could spare one to use on Sherlock, as she has learned from experience that people who are concussed should get a some sleep, contrary to the widespread wives' tale.

She needed him to keep his head prompted upward to fix his stitches, though. She couldn't allow an ugly scar mar his otherwise perfect face.

"Stay very, very still, Mr Holmes." She said smoothly as she took out a little stitching kit from her first aid box. Sherlock only nodded slightly, shaking his head once then settling it against the back of the soft chair, keeping it deathly still.

He watched her pluck the stitches out of his head, and he barely had to stop himself from flinching as he was so transfixed while watching her work. He inspected her face that was now working very close to his, her dexterous hands working together very gently to repair his scarred forehead. Her tiny hands weaved together, and a little crease formed between her perfectly arched eyebrows. Her skin appeared to be very soft, almost as soft as the alarmingly smooth covering of the seat that he was gripping.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't one to stop and appreciate a woman's beauty by feeling any sort of pleasure when he was around it. Sure, he would notice it, acknowledge it even, but never really appreciate it. He learned from a young age that looking at females, or at anyone at all really, in _that_ way will bring him nothing but trouble and distraction that he didn't really desire. Beauty might be fun to look at, but it got boring eventually. He was not one to look at women in any way but at them as individuals who may or may not be an asset to him when on a case and such. And the promise of how pleasing it feels to be in a woman's embrace never appealed to him in any way whatsoever. If anything, he condemned those who chase after women. Men like those were pathetic, distracted. Boring. Never before was he tempted by any sort of aesthetic perfection. But now, while staring at this woman, the Woman, he didn't have to stop himself. He was distracted by everything else that pertained to her existence, so why shouldn't he allow himself to enjoy the simple things about this woman while he fretted over the more complicated aspects that he couldn't quite figure out.

His thoughts were interrupted by a pinching feeling in his thigh.

"This way, Mr Holmes, before you completely pass out." Irene said dryly. She wrapped his big, boiling hand in her small, cold one and pulled him out of the chair, speedily pulling him through a hallway, up a staircase, and through the 2nd door to the left. She opened the door and pushed him onto the unused guest bed. He shut his eyes.

Everything went dark.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Hey guys. I just wanted to thank you for your very sweet reviews. Thanks for the tips, they keep me motivated and make me a better writer! I can't wait to read more of them! **

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Irene awoke in the morning feeling whole. Complete. She pulled of the bedsheets from around her, put her little feet down on the cold tile floor, and inspected the room. The color around her made her feel colorful on the inside. She turned to examine herself in the mirror. She had on a new silk nightgown that she bought on her shopping spree the day before. It was cream colored, covered with satin-pink embroidery. It was something very her; something Sherlock would expect to see her in, as opposed to the ratty sweatshirt that is three sizes too big on her that she wore to bed the night before. Perhaps buying and wearing this ensemble was wishful thinking on her part, as for she was sure she wasn't going to be getting up to what it's intended to be used for anytime soon, but she had to do everything and anything she could to keep up appearances.

She slipped on a pair of white, fluffy slippers, donned a black kimono, and headed out her bedroom door, pulling up her dark hair from around her face on her way. She took a peek into the cracked-open guest room door and saw no one in there as she expected. Sherlock isn't one for sleeping if he could help it; thats why she had to drug him into a deep slumber. She pulled her back straight, stuck her chest out, and gracefully descended the stairs. As she entered her living room and inspected it in its new state for the first time in the sunlight. It looks angular, beautiful, dangerous. Well, its safe to say she's a woman that sticks to her taste.

She smelt the scent of tea being made and walked into her kitchen to see Sherlock Holmes, in yesterday's outfit, pouring a stream of hot water into a basic white mug. He turned around as soon as he felt the presence of another, and nodded a simple good morning to her. His scar looked a lot less red than the night before. Her handiwork is already allowing him to heal up nicely. She was impressed with herself.

"Now now, Mr Holmes. When you're living under my roof, you live under my rules as well. And in MY house, we say good morning to each other like civilized people."  
"It doesn't appear like you have many guests over to have previously abided by those rules of yours, Ms Adler."

"Well, it wouldn't if I didn't want it to." She replied, giving him a little smile and snatching the cup of Earl Grey out of his hands just as he was about to take his first sip. She took a sip. Sugarless, just the way she liked it. She hadn't had tea in the morning in ages. It reminded her too much of her old, lost home.

His stony face gave her no response. He just walked past her to the cupboard where she keeps her tea bags, plucking out another bag of Earl Grey and putting it in a cup that he took out from the cupboard right next to it. She took another sip.

They both sat down at the kitchen table at the same time, sipping their tea while inspecting each other. They both waited for the other to make the first move.

"Care for some breakfast, Mr Holmes?"  
"No thank you. I need to think."  
"About what?"  
"How is it any of your business?"  
"You asked me to pick you up in the middle of the night, I think you made it my business."

"It was hardly the middle of the night, and you couldn't have picked me up to take me to this house or yours if it wasn't for me."  
"Would you stop bringing that up please. If you want I'll leave right now and you can have your dinky little house. I've made my own way without much help from you anyway, thank you very much." Little did he know that she could've been doing a lot better if he weren't in her heart. But she's doing a very good job at keeping this fact masked.

More silence.

"Alright, then. I'll go back my bags th-"

"Wait, don't." He said shakily. He set his teacup down and rubbed his temples.

"Don't what, Mr Holmes."  
"Do-don't leave"  
"Don't leave, what?"  
"Don't leave, _please." _Although those words were laden with a poison dripping with hatred, she could sense the actual pleading nature behind them.

"Fine, then. Would you mind telling me what happened then? And don't skimp out on any of the details, Mr Holmes, you know that I can tell when you're lying."  
"Do you really, now?" He thought to himself. He watched the Woman, who although was dressed like the Woman he first met, she didn't really look like her. She looked just as tired as the day he rescued her from being beheaded almost a year ago, but in a different way. He could see it just peaking through the cracks in the walls behind her eyes, guarding her heart; the heart that so traitorously gave her up. He wondered if she still felt the same way about him as at the beginning, because he knew he did. The chemistry of love might not be a mystery to him, but John Watson was right: the emotional aspect of love is as ambiguous to him as is the solar system above his head; the one he never had any interest in and therefore never bothered to delve deeper into the details of its existence.

The thought of John made him feel a funny little flutter in his chest. He isn't used to feeling things in this way. Sure, he cared for his friend. He couldn't deny that. But caring in this way was something he was unaccustomed to. He once asked his brother if he thought there was something wrong with them because they don't feel things, and Mycroft was, of course, quick to remind him that all hearts break in the end, so what's the use of putting them in a position to break in the first place? Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, he said so himself. But there must be more that lies behind the existence of sentiment, because why else would it even has a place in the spectrum of human emotion? Perhaps he would be monumentally less bored if he were to feel things; not just feel things about anyone, of course, but for someone like him. Someone who could best him. Someone who HE could best, but with difficulty. Someone like the woman who is sitting in front of him right now, stony faced yet so expressive. She is so very important, for she is the Woman, _the _Woman.

Irene studied the great Sherlock Holmes before her. He was supposed to be a fraud, a phony. It was written on the same website where she first read news of his supposed passing. She read that he invented a character by the name of Moriarty. The website even claimed he was the biggest fake the world has ever seen. She of course, knew that Moriarty was real. And so was Sherlock. Oh, how ridiculous the minds of the ordinary can be.

Sherlock started to speak. He told her all about what happened in London. Why he had to do the terrible thing he did. How he did it, too. She was quite impressed and couldn't help thinking that brainy is indeed the new sexy. He told her all about what Moriarty did, and how he did it with excruciating detail she didn't expect him to give her. Irene started to think about all the things he just told her. How could he have known that Moriarty played so dirty? Sherlock thinks elegantly, and thinks that everybody is just as elegant as he is. Never could he have foreseen Moriarty playing the game the way he did. However, he did win at the end, and winning is winning, no matter the cost, even if meant dying, albeit a fake death. But it meant almost all the same things to him, and she knew that well.

"And that is what happened. You might think me a fool for not figuring out Moriarty's game plan beforehand. And please, don't tell me its because I'm on the side of the angels because I'm quite confident in the fact that you are clever enough to know otherwise." It felt odd for him to compliment someone else's brilliance for a change. And boy, was he familiar with her brand of brilliance.  
"Yes I do, and I'm sure that you know that I'm not on those rotten angels' side either. They're no fun at all"  
He chuckled, she smiled. Their eyes twinkled in unison. He noticed, and so did she. So their faces, as if by a supernatural force's power, got closer and closer with each breath they took in sync. His face was inches away from hers, he could clearly smell the undiluted scent of her. The clean yet sensual scent of musk and cinnamon. She could see her entire life play out in those icy blue eyes of his. She could even see her future in them too.

And so they got closer and closer.

He felt her breath on his lips and they sparked quite an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach all the way to the pinpricks he was feeling in his lips. She felt a different kind of pang; one in her heart. He caused her so much pain, but she somehow knew that this kiss would make it all worthwhile. So, closer and closer they got. She shut her eyes.

And then the doorbell rang.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Hey guys! Sorry I haven't updated in so long, I was on a school trip! Anyway, I hope you guys like this new stuff. Keep those reviews coming! **

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"I'll get it," she mumbled breathily. Similar waves of disappointment coursed through the both of them as she fluidly stood up and walked over to the door very lightly. She heard Sherlock shuffling about in the kitchen behind her. His movements obviously indicate that he is just as confused as she is about what had just transpired in her kitchen; the kitchen where she would usually hold her cup of bitter coffee in her icy hands and look out the window onto the boring, bland street as her heart pumped dullness through her.

But this was very different. She felt the exact opposite of dull at the moment.

She opened the door to see the mailman, however it was a different man than the one who usually delivers her mail. The strange new mailman looked up at her and his jaw dropped, almost disconnecting from the rest of his face. Oh, right. She was in her new nightgown and kimono.

"Good morning. Anything interesting come in the mail today?" She asked politely, acting like nothing's different and completely disregarding his reaction to her get-up.

"Um, here you g-go Ms, erm Smith?" He shakily handed her a bunch of white and tan colored envelopes, peppered with the odd colorful spread of an advertorial. His eyes were looking at everything on the inside of her house, as if he was trying to focus on everything but her. She bent down to pick up the local weekly newspaper on her doorstep as the man kept looking at the inside of her house, very obviously flustered by Irene's attractive appearance. At least she now knows that she hasn't lost her touch on normal people, but this get-up wasn't intended for impressing normal people.  
"Thank you." She said, shutting the door in his spell-bound face.

Boy, did she miss getting that reaction.

As she walked back into the kitchen, nonchalantly flipping through the mail, her mind started whirring with mortification as it took apart and analyzed that moment of the complete loss of control on both their parts. She was the one who was way too into it. She was the one who got closer first. She was the one creating this all in her head; her stupid head seemed to finally have given up to the whims of her stupid heart. She was wondering if she could get the ever-annoying nuisance of sentimental emotions surgically removed. She should get to researching it after she's done with her latest book.

He was sitting on the kitchen table, the tea in his cup all gone. He was thinking too. What was he doing? What did he just do? How could his mind have went so BLANK? It has only done so on a couple of offhand occasions, yet never before did it make him feel this offset. His mind snapped out of it though, and was not whirring at full speed. He was solving mathematical conundrums in his head while composing a new orchestra piece in the back of his mind. He couldn't hear anything around him now, all he could do was think. Think of her, her scent. The orchestra piece in his mind crashed from a loud crescendo to sudden diminuendo. It was a continuation of the song he composed for her when she thought she had died, and it was as sweet and full of sadness and confusion as the day he had started writing it.

She sure as hell isn't dead, and neither is he.

Irene left the kitchen silently, placing the mail she just received on the kitchen table, but Sherlock didn't even notice. He didn't notice her watching him either, and therefore didn't notice her face fall a bit when he didn't notice her. He didn't notice her eyes cloud over with disappointment, pain. He didn't notice her finally recognize the source of the dullness; the reason behind it in the first place. To be fair, he didn't know there was a dullness to start out with in the first place. But that doesn't change the fact that he didn't look up. He didn't notice her.

The music in his head suddenly started crashing back up in a crescendo once more. He has learned plenty over the last year, and he previously thought he had nothing left to learn. It was all because of her. The Woman_. The _Woman. She opened up the floodgates, beckoned a wave of useless yet all-encompassing emotions to enter his brain. However, they didn't muddle it as he expected them to do. They only made it work more efficiently. Faster. Once he let in fear as well, he was able to analyze it. Understand it. And now he no longer fears fear itself, defeating the purpose of what the great Eleanor Roosevelt once said. He heard the violin rift ring through the orchestra piece in his mind, and it reminded him of feeling loss. He just lost his life, everything he has ever cherished. John. His only friend, he has lost him forever. Just as he once thought he lost Irene forever. The only difference is, he couldn't make sure he didn't lose John forever by swooping in and saving him from being beheaded. All he could do was leave and never, ever return.

So he was here now. He returned to the person who injected him with his first, very lethal dose of sentiment, the one that instigated all this stupid caring business. He resented her for it at first, but that resentment he was clutching on to suddenly disappeared forever as soon as he heard whispers about how she was about to be beheaded in Karachi. All he could do, all he could think of was keeping her alive, no matter what the cost may be. This newfound effect of sentiment taught him the virtues of doing the right thing, even if it cost him his life. It made him do what he did on the roof of St Barts, even though he lost his life, both in the sense of how he used to live, and in the sense of everyone he is fond of thinking him dead.

Now, since he is here anyway with the Woman, why shouldn't he take a chance to learn, to explore? Besides, since he now has nothing better to do, he might as well learn more about the virtues of sentiment. It would keep him from being bored. He touched the scar on his head, and the banging pain it was making throughout his entire flight to the US almost completely subsided. The only thing that distracted him from that pain, and the pain of the loss he was just blown away with, was thinking of the Woman. Her eyes, her voice, her being.

His thoughts were interrupted by her reemergence. She strutted into the kitchen wearing a black, lacy dress that appeared to be molded to her body and reached her knees. Her feet were shielded with very pointy red stilettos. They pinched her toes but she didn't care, whoever said running away had to be comfortable? It rarely ever was.

"I'm off to run a few errands, Mr Holmes. Try to keep out of trouble."

She had her laptop under her arm and a little black purse on her shoulder, and she was fiddling with her car keys in her hand. She, of course, knew she didn't have anything to do outside her house that she couldn't do in it. But she had to run. It's all she knew how to do. Whenever she was faced with a problem she couldn't completely defeat, she ran to give herself time to think. Running away is better than having herself be spat in the face. The only time she didn't run away from her sentiment and emotions, she met her downfall. So now, no matter what the cost, she'd run. Run like hell too.

He didn't say a word, he just watched her walk away, out of his sight, and out of the house.

She slammed the door behind her.


	12. Chapter 12

She went to a little internet cafe at some strip mall, opened her laptop, and deleted the rough draft she started working on a few months ago. She decided to write a new story, but not like the ones she has written before. And she kept writing. A young, pimple-faced teenage boy approached the table she was sitting at a few times, bringing her fresh cups of coffee every two hours or so. She wrote about a love story doomed to fail from the start. She wrote about a woman who had it all, a woman who was just about to win even more, but met her downfall because of a stupid little slip up. A mistake only lovesick teenage girls would find tragically beautiful, but older women who are experienced and successful would find simply tragic. Its the story of a game lost because of one stupid misguided mistake reeking of sentimental foolishness. She let out all the pain that she had suppressed in the dullness of her heart that resurfaced as soon as Sherlock Holmes' face inched closer and closer to hers.

She decided that if she was to act unaffected in front of that man, she had to truly _be_ unaffected. And the only way to do that was to let it all out. So why not make a few extra bucks off of it in the meantime? Her fingers never once stopped tapping on her computer that was whirring in unison with her mind. She kept typing until the sun went down, until the last line was printed, neatly. "And so," it read, "they both lived happily separated for all eternity, sentiment be damned."

That's an ending she could live with.

* * *

Sherlock's day was full of him avoiding some introspective soul-searching. He inspected every solitary element of Irene Adler's house and was able to deduce that all the furniture was fairly new, although they smelt of the mix of musk and cinnamon that Irene herself smelt strongly of. The only logical reason he could think of for all the new furniture was that maybe Irene remodeled recently, but the furniture all looked way too new for it to have been bought and placed in her house in a week prior to his arrival. Strange. It didn't make sense, but he was too distracted by something else that was nagging him in the back of his mind.

In attempt to suppress it, Sherlock also inspected the insides of her refrigerator, the contents of her bookshelf, and even the insides of her basement. He even lapped the block once. It all looked quite regular to him, but he kept searching anyway. Anything to keep his mind off of trying to figure out why his mind kept going blank in that blasted woman's presence. He couldn't explain it at all. There was one explanation for that, but it was quite absurd. He kept trying to avert his thoughts from even going in down that direction, however that direction seems like the only solid answer as it would also be a sufficient answer as to why he felt like he had to save that woman's life in the first place.

When he was on the plane to Kabul and on the following train to Karachi a year ago, he tried to figure out the reason as to why he's going through all this trouble to save the Woman's life. He couldn't explain his thoughts exactly then, as there was no logical reason behind his actions that had to do with a logical explanation. Her life wouldn't be an asset to him right then and there, just as there was no use for him taking her empty phone after Mycroft had John dutifully inform him that Irene is supposedly dead. It was the same force that pushed their faces closer and closer together; the same force that let him know, just magically know, Irene's passcode. He didn't know what was it about her that made him feel the way he did; the way he does now. He typically doesn't like not being able to read people; not being able to be in complete control. But with her, it's very different.

Sherlock Holmes was very familiar with the side effects of the infallible chemistry of love on others, as he so very adeptly demonstrated on that fateful night where he tore apart Irene Adler's life and brought on her downfall. But could that force, that oh so mysterious force that brought him to figure out the passcode, that flew him halfway across the world to save her, that flew him halfway across the world again when he needed to disappear, be the force of his body's chemicals reacting together? Could it be the dopamine that he used to crave so much that he would take hit after hit of cocaine to have coursing through his veins so rapidly now be something he had no desire for?Could the Norepinephrine in his body really be the thing that causes him to act so irrationally in any situation where the Woman is involved? The way he was behaving surely indicates that he is not in his right mind, but that there are specific hormones at work. He is human, after all.

He was sitting in her dark living room, tapping his fingertips together as he thought and thought and thought. How could this be possible? His mind ran through all the possibilities of what could be the matter with him, but his thoughts were interrupted as the front door swiftly opened and slammed shut. Irene briskly walked into the room and saw him sitting there. She didn't look at him or say a word, she briskly walked to the stairs and started going up.

He took one look at her receding figure, and a little traitorous thought popped into his mind. Maybe he should allow himself to feel things, for once. Give the everlasting discipline he bred within himself a break and take a chance to absorb some new knowledge. Besides, how is he supposed to know everything if he hadn't at least experienced everything once or twice? Before, he used to only wanted to know about things that he thought were interesting, and he didn't think love to be interesting. However, now he's quite interested to see what the outcome of things were to be if they escalated.

Suddenly, the door creaked open once more, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock got up from where he was seated quietly as very noise footsteps approached. A masked man clad in black with a matching black bag slung across his back walked into the dark living room, and was having a very hard time seeing things around him. Sherlock picked up the odd looking vase that was on the side table on the end of the couch he was sitting at and prepared to strike the man. However, Irene got to him first. She hopped on him from where she quietly stood on the foot of the stairs as soon as he thought he sneakily and unnoticeably crept into the living room, putting her fingers straight through his eye sockets, knocking him over from the shock and pain.

Sherlock immediately rushed to help her, but it didn't look like she needed much help in the first place. She flipped him over on to his back deftly, making sure to push him onto his own limbs. The intruder yelled in pain.

"Oh, do shut up." She said monotonously, then proceeded to knock the back of his head to the floor, making a loud painful scrunching sound. The man's eyes rolled into his head and shut as he fell unconscious.

"Could you be a dear and hand me something to tie this man up with, Mr Holmes?" She said pointedly. He ran downstairs and brought her some rope from where he saw a box of it earlier that day. She nodded her thanks and flipped the intruder over again to tie his hands and feet together. He could see her old dominatrix ways that she obviously hadn't completely put behind her.

She got off of him, dusting herself off a bit.  
"A little help would be nice, Mr Holmes." She said, giving him a smug look. He nodded and pulled the man off the floor and onto one of the chairs.

"Get the lights." She ordered, and he quietly obliged. She ripped the mask of the intruder's face, then took his chin lightly in her hand and tilted his face upward so she could get a better look. She couldn't be quite sure without his eyes open, but she recognized him quite quickly. It was the new mailman from this morning.

She raised her eyebrow. Sherlock also examined the man's face, then hers, puzzled at her bafflement. She sensed his curiosity and, without turning to look at Sherlock, said, "This is the mailman from this morning. He isn't the man who usually pops by, though."  
"Step aside." He muttered. Irene was curious to know what Sherlock's take on this was. He let her do what she did best, and now it was her turn to let him do what he does best.

As Sherlock was examining the man, Irene went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

"Did you happen to read this morning's paper, Ms Adler?" Sherlock asked from the living room. She glanced to her kitchen table, where the newspaper she picked up from her doorstep this morning while the mailman was eyeing the inside of her house was sitting. She read the front-page headline:

**"Breaking and Entering Numbers Spike in Local Suburban Neighborhood, Baffling Local Police Force."**

She picked up the newspaper and scanned over the article. Of course, a bunch of robberies happening only in her neighborhood over the last week; how odd for there to be multiple robberies in the same neighborhood while the rest of the town is relatively crime-free? Also, how very odd is it for someone to break in to the houses and not take a single thing, as whenever the families would wake up to find their house broken into, they found nothing missing according to the report. She had a couple of the people on her street over the past week to ask her if a different mailman dropped by her house that day, and she always said no. Coincidentally, the day after that she'd read about how their house was robbed in the paper. She never thought much about it until now.

"Why, just now, yes." She replied, walking into the living room to see the intruder waking up a bit, groaning. She walked up to him and gagged him with his own mask. As soon as it went into his mouth and blocked his airway, the man's eyes flew open, and he spit it out, panting.  
"D-don't you want to know why I'm here?" He said, gasping.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said. "You're here to search of something, as you've gone through every house on this block." The man's eyes widened with shock as Sherlock turned to gauge Irene's non-existent reaction. His eyebrows furrowed a bit.

"H-how did you k-know?" Said the man.  
"Oh, it's quite obvious." Irene said, walking up to him and gagging him with his hat once more, but tying it at the back of his head this time to make sure that he can't spit it out. His eyes started watering from the pain.

"Really? How is it obvious?" Sherlock said with curiosity. Surely she couldn't also see the smudge of paint on the heel of his shoe from when he robbed the house from across the street that just painted their mailbox that day, as he could tell by the smudge in the mailbox's paint job that morning. It was impossible for that smudge of paint to be from anywhere else, because it was the exact shade and shape of the smudge on the mailbox, according to his perfect memory. He had also read about that robbery in the paper that morning. But how did she know? Sherlock frowned internally. He bet that she didn't know what the man was looking for: it was crystal clear from the contents of the bag the intruder carried in with him that he searched through while Irene was in the kitchen.

"Oh, I have my ways of knowing things too, Mr Holmes." She said. Their eyes met, and they held each other's gaze. The man started struggling with his bonds once more, and they both burst into laughter. Belly shaking, eye watering laughter. They keeled over on top of each other as they laughed and laughed and laughed, with her high tinkling giggles harmonized with his deep, raspy guffaws.

They both stopped laughing as the man stood up, hopped a bit, then immediately fell flat on his face. The laughing commenced once more as the man was struggling like a worm on the carpet. They laughed for a while until the man stopped wiggling, out of breath. Sherlock and Irene both hoisted him on to the seat he was propped up on before.

"So, would you like to know why this man is here, Ms Adler?"  
"To break in to my house, and not take anything," She said, "But, why?"


	14. Chapter 14

He thought she'd never ask.

"Well, he's looking for buried treasure."  
"Buried treasure?" She sat down on the couch as the intruder also eyed Sherlock with a look he knew well. A look that read "How the hell did YOU know that?"

"Well isn't it obvious? A man who thinks himself to be clever deciding to take it upon himself to recover his great-grandfather's stolen loot from little less than a century ago. Look at his hands, obviously a contractor from the look of them. Bruised, and scarred, and smudged with paint. A combination found on only those who's job entails hammering, sawing, cutting and painting all at the same time: contractors. Also, I'm sure you noticed that all the houses on your block have the same exact exterior style. When I bought you this house, Ms Adler, I knew that this house was one of many built right after the First World War, during the Roaring Twenties. I thought you'd appreciate the beauty of the architecture. I also knew it was one of many built by a very well-known contractor at the time who, apparently, fell from glory because his hand was a bit too grabby when it came to other people's valuables, especially when he came to give the house his final inspection when their happy buyers where comfortably moved in, as it so seems by the nature of the loot he had gathered, which must be something he could easily smuggle out when it came time for him to leave. It is also obvious that this man still inspects and does annual renovations and touch ups on these houses as obvious by the smudge of paint on his shoes from when he painted the mailbox of the house down the street. These shoes are obviously his work shoes given their steel toe, not the most convenient shoes to go sneaking about in. You could also tell he visited that same house the night he painted their mailbox because they were the only house on the block that didn't have the visit from the strange mailman. I overheard a few of your very gabby neighbors discussing this topic earlier today. The mailbox was also how he got his very clever idea for a disguise. As a mailman. People don't usually pay much attention to the man who delivers their mail, and all he had to do was explain his plight to the mailman; tell him that he needed the extra morning job once a week to pay for a complicated matter." How very much like sweet old Tom, Irene noted to herself.

Sherlock stopped to inspect the intruder's face. Irene couldn't help but not suppress the little flutter of flattery she felt when he mentioned her liking the architecture. Of course, she didn't really appreciate the architecture of her house much till that very moment, but just by him mentioning that he spent at least the smallest amount of effort in ensuring her pleasure made something in her gut wrench. Could he really feel the way she thinks he does? Assuming he does have any emotions, of course. His general behavior certainly indicates otherwise.

"So now, this gentleman over here thinks he can go back to all the houses his good old great grandfather built to try and find the loot, as apparently it had been hidden in one of the houses that his great grandfather last worked on, which is apparently one of the houses on this block. However, how could our poor friend here know which one? He had to break in to every single one on his only off-day from work because he couldn't afford to give himself one to break into houses everyday in case the mystical treasure doesn't exist. But our moderately clever friend here is a real dreamer apparently."

"How did you get all that?" She asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

"The note in his pocket." He said, plucking it out of the man's pocket and handing it to Irene. She took it gently and studied it as the man started to struggle and grunt. It's a very old piece of personalized stationary with the words "McHobbs' and Sons Building Co." at the top with the words "Under the 3rd tile from the right in the basement, look. House number ..." then there was an illegible smudge.

Irene handed it back to Sherlock, who put it back into the man's pocket.  
"He needs the extra cash to pay for something, possibly his mother's steep medical bills, but most probably a gambling debt as this man is obviously a gambler given the very steely look in his eye that he has now while under this enormous amount of pressure, and the sheer stupidity he has by thinking he could possibly luck out and find the famed family stolen loot. All gamblers think they'll get lucky if they keep trying, that's how they fall into debt. He was probably sifting through old family heirlooms in his family home's basement or attic of sorts in search of something to sell. How else would he possibly found this little thing that obviously has been hidden away for a very long time." He added explanatorily. It was obvious by the look of the almost decayed yellowing paper; it hasn't seen the light of day in an extremely long time. Irene nodded.

"You call the police to come pick our clever little friend here, and I'll go look for the treasure." Sherlock said. He dashed off towards the basement of the house. Irene dialed 911 as she heard Sherlock rhythmically stepping down the stairs.  
"Hello, 911? What is your emergency?"  
"Yes, hello, I'd like to report a break in. It seems as though a friend and I have caught your breaking and entering culprit." Irene said, a smile spreading across her face as she heard Sherlock prying open the floor tiles in her basement.

Everything suddenly got a bit more exciting.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Happy Sherlock Day! I'm so glad we FINALLY GOT NEW EPISODES I WAS LITERALLY ABOUT TO EXPLODE! Is it just me, or did he seem a tad more human? I wonder who prompted that little change in him (ahem, Irene.) (Well, in my mind anyway.) I hope you enjoy my fic. I always look forward to hearing your feedback, it means the world to me! Keep the reviews coming! **

* * *

"It seems as though someone beat you to the chase. I'd say you're about a little under a hundred years late, judging by the look of this paper." Sherlock said as he climbed the stairs. He walked into the living room and handed Irene a crumpled and grimy looking paper that read, "Sorry, Morty!" on it.

"So sorry." Sherlock said as he held up the paper so the intruder could see.

Oh, well. It wasn't like she was short on cash anyway, so the loss of a potential sudden discovery of treasure wasn't going to affect her, really.

"Care for a glass of wine?" Irene said, handing the paper back to Sherlock. Why not add some alcohol into the mix since they were having so much fun in the first place.

"I don't drink." Sherlock said pointedly. He set the paper on the coffee table and set himself on the couch gracefully.

"More for me, then." She said. She knew he was lying, but she wasn't about to stop her fun for his benefit. Boy, did she need some wine.

As she was pouring red wine into one of her new wine glasses, there was a knock on the door that Sherlock answered. She heard the policemen shuffle in as Sherlock filled them in on every single detail he easily uncovered. She strutted in to the room with red wine glass in hand. She smiled as the two male policemen's eyes raked over her body in awe. She did used to love policemen, so very cocky. They think they can conquer the world just because they have a shiny badge, so they used to come to her to have themselves beaten, because even they sometimes got tired of doing the beating.

She took a sip of wine as she took a stroll down memory lane on her own, leaning against the door frame as she watched the female policewoman snap her fingers in front of her colleagues eyes as she was pulling the intruder out. One of them shook his head and started reading the man his rights. The other just gawked. Sherlock was watching them react to Irene. What a bunch of amateurs. He cleared his throat and turned to look at Irene, saying, "On second thought, hand me a glass of that wine." He figured if he was really going to learn how to feel, he would need little help. Irene looked to him and smiled, heading back into the kitchen.

They both stood side by side, sipping their wine as the police lifted their not-so-clever intruder by the tops of his arms and put him away in their police car as the female officer came up to where Sherlock and Irene to get their statements.

"I'm sorry about those two guys, Ma'am. They're rookies." She said apologetically.

"What can we do? Men." Irene said, giving the nice policewoman a smile. She smiled back. Sherlock snorted.

"Oh, do shut up and give this nice policewoman here your brilliant statement." Irene said, taking a sip and drinking up the last of the wine in her glass.

"So, Mr... erm." The policewoman started.  
"Smith." Irene heard him say as she walked into her house for a refill. Wait, what?

Her heart did a little flip against her ribs, but she made herself stop feeling. It was probably nothing, he probably thought nothing of it either. It was the only thing he could think of right there on the spot. But he's Sherlock Holmes, he probably thought of a million different things on the spot and chose to go with her very bland new chosen name. Her suspicions about where his heart lies where once again seeming more and more likely.

She poured herself some more wine, watching the crimson liquid splash around the edges of her glass. She downed it all in one breath and poured herself another glass. If she was going to be delusional and see things, she might as well have an excuse to pin her delusional state on.

She heard the front door gently shut as a police siren turned on and faded into the distance.

"Well, that was quick." She said as Sherlock walked into the kitchen.

"Thank God something exciting happened. I was about to start putting holes in your walls with this thing." He said, walking into the kitchen. She turned around to see him twiddling with the gun she taped under her new coffee table as soon as she came home after the men she hired assembled all the furniture she bought. She wasn't sure what was going to happen with Sherlock Holmes in her house, as he usually brought trouble with him (although he'd probably think its the other way around, really).

She chuckled into her wine and saw that his glass was empty. She downed the entire glass, then offered him another drink. She thought that maybe if she drove him away under the guise of her intoxication, he might leave her be and let her get on with her life. He thought that if he could gauge her reaction to his unusual behavior that he would attribute to HIS intoxication, maybe he could learn more.

They both figured they had time to kill, so why the hell not keep the wine flowing?

* * *

And the wine did keep flowing, and flowing, and flowing.

It didn't take them both a long time to polish of the first bottle of wine, so Irene popped open another one. She was on her 6th glass, he was on his 4th and was about to catch up to her. They both took sips of their wine in silence, watching and waiting for the other to make the first move. Irene figured she should grow a pair and do it. After all, how much liquid courage did she have to down for her to actually put it into use?

So she got up from the armchair she was sitting and sat on the arm of his. He looked up at her; his eyes were filled with something she couldn't understand. Suddenly, the air in the room got very heavy. Almost unbreathable. Almost.

"You know, Ms Adler, I was quite impressed by the way you hogtied the man into a bundle." He said, turning his entire body to face her. She was surprised at his advancement, his eagerness. But she didn't miss a beat.

"Well, I was impressed by the way you just took my last name, Mr Holmes." She said, her voice clear.

"Right. Well, I had to think fast, I suppose."  
"Oh, I am quite familiar with your quick thinking, Mr Holmes." She said, taking his hand in hers. He took her other hands as she snaked her small fingers to the inside of his wrist.

"I know you are. Why else would you pick me out to solve your impossible riddle way back when?" His icy blue eyes melted as they searched her guarded ones, and he read the surprise in them when she felt his increased pulse. She looked into his eyes to see them dilated.

Oh, boy.


	16. Chapter 16

"What?" He said, alarmed by the way her face suddenly went from being illuminated by the flirtatious smile he had seen her wear before to morphing into the stony cold blank mask he wasn't so accustomed to seeing on her face, even though it was the only expression she'd had over the past few days.

"Nothing, nothing." She said, she got off the arm and, with her finally finding the courage to with the help of the wine and the oh so telling bit of evidence she had just uncovered, sat herself on his warm lap.

She leaned into him as she took in what she just saw and felt. She took a sniff of him. It smelt just like the shirt and trousers she plucked out of the hotel room closet in Kabul. Fresh, in a musky sort of way.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked her in a low, throaty whisper, letting his head drop to where her ear was nuzzled against his neck. His arms where still on the arms of the chair. He obviously didn't know what to do. Or, he didn't know how to react. He knew they were both playing chicken; waiting to see who would be the first to act, the first to say something, to see who was going to be the first to outright acknowledge the situation they have found themselves in. They both wanted to know, however, they both already did know, deep down inside. It was so, very transparent, really. Yet, they both waited.

They've both been hurt after playing this game before. But maybe, they just didn't play it right.

He didn't know what was going on, and that alien feeling of cluelessness is the thing Sherlock Holmes hates the most. As soon as she got close to him, it was as if her cinnamon scent hit him across the head like a mound of bricks. He pulled away and angled himself to face her, studying her beautiful face that was made even more delicate by her angular features, and he couldn't read a single thing, just like on the day they first met. However, he did just read the little gleam of shock that shone through her eyes as her cold fingers that were pushed against the warm inside of her wrist that took his pulse told moments before. It told her something she apparently wasn't aware of. No, it proved something she thought to be false before. He was going to go all out with this experiment and enjoy himself in the process, he has to go big or go home.

He put his hands on her face, delicately stroking her cheeks in an experimental sort of way. "Now you know for sure, Irene. So, what are you going to do about it." He said He didn't know what to do next, but he knew that she did. He figured all she needed as a little push. Maybe he pushed her a little too far though, because all he got was her stony silence. He dropped his hands from her face and turned to stare at the wall, trying to calculate his next move with difficulty as his brain wasn't going as fast as it usually did, thanks to the wine and Irene's very distracting presence. Suddenly, she sprung up from his lap, standing in front of him, blocking the spot of the wall her was staring at and taking him by surprise.

"I know what, Sherlock? That you're body is doing the same thing that gave ME away because you can't help it just as much as I can't. So what? I DO know that you sold me out, and that you came running to save me from the sword you put over my head, and then proceeded to run away again. I know all about running, Sherlock Holmes, believe me, I've done a fair share of it throughout my lifetime. Enough to make me want to stop forever. And you took that away from me. You came in to my life at my own invitation, really, but I didn't know you would stay stuck to it and destroy it in the process. Sure, you're the Great an Sherlock Holmes, who's never been tempted to feel anything for anyone ever. I didn't expect you to show me much mercy if you ever really did get to figuring out my password, but I at least thought you might have a drop of compassionate decency in you that would prompt you to at least request that your damned brother throw me in prison cell rather than chuck me out in the street, utterly defenseless!" All the pain that had been plaguing her heart; all the bitterness, the hatred, bled out right then and there. It has been said.

He stood up and looked down at her, his prepossessingly lean face hardening.

"I'd hardly say you've ever been defenseless. You seem to be forgetting, Irene, that YOU were the one who came looking for trouble. You wanted to put me out, wanted to sell me out. You tricked me in the first place and knew exactly how to do it too. I only gave you a taste of your own medicine, and I still saved your life."

"And why did you?"

"Because I remembered how it was the first time I thought you had died." He stated.

Suddenly, he felt her arms around his neck pulling him downward, and his lips crashed into hers. A surprising warmth sprang through his body, and he felt his arms instinctively go around her small waist. He felt her pushing him towards the couch, and down onto it. He felt her climbing on top of him. He then surprised himself as he deepened the kiss. He couldn't think of anything, focus on anything at all but on the feeling of her lips on his, her mouth on his.

She didn't know how to feel. She never felt this way before about anyone. Not before him. She didn't know how to feel as he took the lead, as he flipped her and pinned him underneath his warmth. So she just let him kiss her neck. She let him run his hands all over her. She let him carry her off up to her bedroom. She is usually the one doing the dominating, and she is usually the one calling the shots. But since he's a newbie, she thought she'd let him do what he pleases the first time around. She didn't want to crush his spirit. Besides, she was intrigued in what he had to offer.

And with that, they finally had dinner.

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**AN: Please review! Your reviews keep me going! **


	17. Chapter 17

Irene woke up the following morning alone in her bed, which was odd considering the events of the night before, and how they ended with her falling asleep in his arms. It was safe to say that she was really was used to sex, but it was usually a purely physical ordeal for her. Sherlock wasn't so bad at it, not that it surprised her or anything. That man was a surprisingly quick learner. She rolled over in the empty bed to lay in the spot where Sherlock did right when she fell asleep. It was cold. Suddenly, a thought crossed her mind, a thought that made the resonant pleasure that was clouding her senses evaporate. Maybe he did run away, like she was trying to make him do the night before. She wouldn't put it past him at all, regardless of the story his pupils and pulse told. He was clever enough to know when to run. She quickly got up and pulled a robe around her, looking at the floor in search of the clothes he slipped out of so sleekly last night. They weren't there.

Her mind shut down completely. How could he do this to her again? She slipped on her slippers and walked down the stairs slowly. She couldn't say that deep down inside she hadn't expected this, but it didn't make suppressing the pain any harder.

When she got to the foot of the stairs and heard a reassuring shuffling in her kitchen, she felt a wave of relief fill her up, from her toes to the top of her head. Relief was very very sweet. She let a small smile crack on her lips, but then forcefully wiped it off her face as she turned to enter the kitchen. He was fully dressed in his clothes from two days before, making his morning cup of tea.

He heard her light footsteps pattering down the stairs, heard her sudden pause, then her entrance into the kitchen while he was making tea for two. Last night was more educational than he could have ever thought it to be. He felt things he never thought were possible to be felt, he even let himself enjoy it a bit. He let himself feel pleasure. And he liked it, a lot. He could no longer deny that he cared for her profusely, but he wouldn't use a word such as love to describe the way he felt. Love is a very vague concept, and it was also quite boring. Love indicated that there was a certain way he should feel; using the word love for something this... indescribable, untamable. Something this powerful. Putting something like this within the white picket boundaries of the concept of love was a crime. Sentiment might be a chemical defect found on the losing side, but it sure felt nice.

He thought of that right after the deed was done, while he was holding Irene's little body in his arms, warming it. Of course, he was thinking of other things as well. His high off of her almost completely matched the high he used to feel whenever he took a hit of cocaine. He could see everything more clearly, he could think of everything all at once. He got to finishing that orchestra piece he was composing in his head, solved 3 of the few older cases that have completely baffled him in the past, and even found a way to prove an old mathematical theorem wrong, all while holding Irene and living in the moment, letting the pleasure wash over him and overcome him like a tidal wave. He was also thinking of his overwhelming guilt, but he chose to ignore it as it nagged him at the back of his head, screeching as the orchestra reached its climax, ruining its perfect tune.

Now, though, he was irritated by her hesitance. Although, if she knew the truth, he knew that hesitance would multiply by the tenfold and be highlighted by a streak of murderous fury, knowing her. He turned around to face her, with two mugs of sugarless tea in his hands. A warmness streaked through him when her stony face cracked into a little smile as he walked towards her, but it also made the nagging guilt in the back of his head let out another shrill yell. He studied her eyes as he handed her one of the mugs and sensed the relief behind them. Why was she relieved? What could possibly be troubling her? Is she on to him? She nodded a thank you and took a sip as his brows furrowed while he tried to read her. He couldn't read her still, even after their night together. She was still a mystery to him.

"What are you thinking about?" He said, stepping closer to her.

"I was just wondering how you knew how I like my tea without sugar back in Kabul. Let me guess, you could tell by the corners of my lips or something equally ridiculous." She said, smiling into the mug he handed her as she took a sip. She watched his eyebrows furrow as he was thinking about what to do next. It was quite adorable to see Sherlock so very confused.

He then lightly set his hand on her face, his palm to her cheek. He used this thumb to stroke her warm lips. She stiffened. She wasn't used to tender affection, it actually alarmed her a great deal. Maybe she was more alarmed by the fact that it was Sherlock Holmes who was being so very tender. He sensed her surprise.  
"Should I not do this?" He asked in a sort of dry inquisitive manner. He swiftly pulled his hand away, but she caught it in hers, and put it back on her face, smiling and leaning into it.

"No, I quite like this actually." She whispered. They stood like that for a while, each watching the other, each trying to figure the other out. Then, Sherlock took his hand off her face, plucked the tea mug out of her hand, and set it down along with his mug his mug on the kitchen table behind him. He put both his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him. He liked the feel of her body pressed up against his. Who knew intimacy could feel so pleasant to him?

She tilted her head to look up to him and smiled at what she knew was a little experiment for him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled.  
"I figured you didn't like sugar in your tea because I like mine without sugar too." He said in a low, grumbly voice. What he said sent shivers down her spine, and before Irene could give him a witty response, he ducked his face down and very gently, as if he was trying not to frighten her into sprinting away from him at full speed, he touched his lips to hers.

Never in her life was Irene comfortable with letting anyone take the lead in anything she was a part of. She never trusted anyone that much before. She never even really got intimate with anyone in this way ever before last night. She was so used to being rough, to using whips, to tying people up and showing them who's boss. She always used to run away whenever anyone or anything got the least bit close to her.

Yet, somehow, she never felt the need to run from Sherlock Holmes. Even after she first met him, donned in her battle dress, when she saw the danger he could bring with him for herself in real life, she didn't think for a second about running. It was way too interesting to run from. When she felt she was edging towards something out of her depth, she didn't run. She wasn't one to run from a challenge, but she did know when to run from danger. But it seemed as though she knew deep down inside that Sherlock's brand of danger wasn't the type she could escape by running away from. Strangely enough, the danger Sherlock is shrouded with is kind of fun. It made her feel like feeling things for once. It made her feel as though the most romantic symphony was floating through her veins, making everything around her lull to its sweet rhythm.

So she knotted her fingers into his inky black hair and deepened the kiss. They both felt the urgency of it, the electricity sparking between them. His hands traveled lightly down her spine, making the skin beneath the silk robe she was wearing tingle. She melted into his touch, his being. She was trying to remember the last time she has been kissed like that, and remembered that she never has been. Boy, has SHE been missing out on a lot.

They remained in each other's embrace for a while. They even ignored the doorbell ringing. It was probably the regular mailman, and that wasn't important enough for them to stop what they're doing.

All that their exceptionally powerful minds could process was the pure, unadulterated bliss that they never wanted to stop feeling. They remained in this manner till their tea got cold. Not that that mattered. Nothing mattered now that they both know their feelings are valid, really real, and absolutely there.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: I had to reedit almost all of Sherlock's side of the story in this chapter and the one previous according to what happened in the Empty Hearse (which was really brilliant. I was so very impressed.) I hope it's not too crappy. Keep the review coming, people. They make me my day all the more better. Thank you for reading! **

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"You need some more clothes, Sherlock." Irene said. She was sitting on the couch beside him, finishing the last of her cold tea, his arm around her as they watch the morning news. A news story came on about him and how he was a fraud. If she didn't know any better, she'd think that his shaking around her was stifled laughter. She looked up to watch his face go blank, but she knew better. She got off her seat and stood in front of him. She grabbed his arm from where it was propped up on the top of the back of the sofa and said, "Come on, I still have the shirt and trousers I borrowed from you in Kabul. You really need a change of clothes."

He let her pull him behind her up to her room. He stood by the doorway, staring into the distance as Irene walked to her closet and plucked out the pair of trousers and the purple button up shirt that she kept in a little corner of the wardrobe. She used to feel a pang whenever she happened to glance at it in the corner of her eye up until two days ago. My, how things can change at the drop of a hat, no matter how much you think your anticipation of things would be completely spot on.

Sherlock was thinking the exact same thing as well. His life did a complete 180 in the span of 2 days. He's now in America with Irene Adler. He left Baker Street, left John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and all the interesting cases he could help crack. He left London: his city. His home. He left it all, because of Moriarty having to be pesky and set up that oh so exciting crime network of his that was begging to be dismantled. He winced as his very heavily bruised arm brushed against the doorframe. He should have probably went a bit easier on himself with the beating to make it look like he jumped off the bridge, but he knew he had to make his lie seem very convincing if he was going to fool Irene Adler. He had to think fast, so he ran into the wall of the mall at the parking lot several times before Irene arrived. He, of course, felt like he deserved the pain because he's a big fat liar. He's lied to John, lied to everyone he loved, and now he's lying to Irene. He was lying about how he'd faked his death, how he'd been planning the entire altercation with Moriarty just so he could go out into the world and take down every organization he's ever helped or founded. Of course he couldn't tell her the truth, well at least not just yet. Until he figures out exactly where her loyalties lie, or she could make his months of planning worth nothing; she can be quite tricky, and she was so very difficult to read. He was in the process of finding that out, and he figured he should probably be really REALLY sure before he threw the truth out there. Or maybe he was putting it off. Sherlock never put anything off in his life before, but he's never been so afraid to hurt someone like this before either. He's never felt guilty before in his life, either. He's being faced with all these firsts he doesn't know how to deal with.

However, he will hopefully be able to rid himself of the lies soon and not hurt anyone in the process. Guilt is quite distracting, too. No wonder other people never really THINK, they're too busy being guilty about the stupid things they've done. Besides, if he waits a while longer, he might've learned how to be a really good carer by then and not hurt her at all! He's already on his way to learning. He felt Irene's hand touch his and he looked down to her and smiled.  
"Thank you." He said, taking the clothes from her and walking over to the bathroom to change. He changed quickly and walked back into Irene' bedroom to see her already dressed and in the process of curling her hair up.

Sherlock walked up behind her and took the hand that was coiling her hair up.

"I like your hair down better." He said. She turned around and smirked.

"Well, well, Mr Holmes. Anything to please you, I guess." She said, setting all her hair down but picking up her bangs and pulling them back.

"I think this is quite a bit more becoming of you."  
"Are you hungry, Mr Holmes?"  
"Starving."

"Good, then. Let's go get ourselves some breakfast. I'm famished."

* * *

They drove off to the nearest diner to her house. She parked the car. He hopped out first and opened her door. He held out his arm for her to hook hers with as the asphalt they were walking on were very unforgiving for those with heels on. Holding on to him made her footsteps feel lighter. Never was it easier for her to walk than like this.

He opened the diner door for her and let her go in first.

"My my, Mr Holmes, who knew you could be so polite?" She said as she eyed the place. A shiver of distaste went up her spine; this place was an utter dump!

"Well, I usually only use my manners when its worth it." He said, looking at her reaction to the place, and looking up to inspect it. From what he could deduce, their food obviously wouldn't be all that clean.

"Would you rather we go somewhere else?" He asked her. It wasn't as if he chose the place, but he thought she would like to hear someone voicing this option.

"Well, I am up to trying everything once." She said, turning up to him to give him a smile that sent a jolt of joy through his heart that he could find himself becoming accustomed to.

They walked to a small booth by the window and sat down opposite to each other. She looked out to the gloomy weather outside.  
"You must be cold, Mr Holmes."  
"No I'm absolutely fine, Ms Adler." He felt her feet brush up gently against his. This is the Irene Adler he knew. One who flirts endlessly, one who doesn't ignore his existence. He gently pushed back at her legs, and he saw a little smile adorn her red lips as she studied the frosty road outside the window.

An overweight waitress donned in a gaudy uniform came up to them and smiled, handing them both a menu.  
"Just call me over when you guys decide what you want to order." She said. Irene smiled at her and gave her a nod of thanks, and then turned her head to look at the menu she was holding open in front of her.  
"I'll get the vegetarian omelet, I think. What are you going to order, Mr Holmes?"  
"Nothing for me, thanks."  
She set her menu down.

"I can't have you fainting on me, Mr Holmes, not with the activities I have planned later on for us."  
"Digestion slows me down."  
"You know, you really should get better at this flirting thing."  
"How could I if you haven't gave me much material to learn from lately." He said. He was always so very curious about any mystery that may have presented itself to him. And that was what Irene Adler was, one big mystery he was itching to understand. However, he knew that he probably wouldn't ever completely understand her, so he wouldn't ever get bored of her.

He might even never get bored of her if he knew everything about her. Maybe exploring her would be a distraction from the stupid nagging guilt in his head. So why not try and find out.

"Oh, look at that. The great Sherlock Holmes, unable to read one silly, insignificant woman. From your reputation, I thought you'd be a lot better at this." She said coyly with an obvious hint of comedic sarcasm glowing behind her words. He chuckled dryly and said, "You're anything but insignificant, Ms Adler." And he meant it too, because she was _The_ Woman; the only woman who matters. His words made her heart skip a beat momentarily.

"Come on, Mr Holmes. Read me." He smiled at her, studying her eyes, but not saying a word.

"I guess you need some help with that then, Mr Holmes."  
More silence.  
"Fine, you don't have to beg me or anything, but begging would be nice," She said, as her foot travelled slowly up the length of his calf then back down again, sending shivers down his spine. "How do you think I felt after you gave me up to your dear older brother."  
"Betrayed." It was how he felt after she played him so skillfully. He figured that people do have the same feelings as he does after actually allowing himself to feel. Feelings are horrendous.  
"Very good. Now, how do you think I felt after you saved me, then left me without even a goodbye." She said, fiddling with the torn corner of her menu, not making eye contact with him. He took a moment, going into his mind palace to find the little memory he stuck in a little pink box on a shelf in the palace's bedroom, tied shut with a pretty little bow that reminded him of the bonds that his mother used to shut her bonbon boxes with. He opened it, and remembered how he felt right after he saved her. He was quite proud of himself for pulling it off, while being aware of the million things that could have went wrong that he made sure did not happen. He also remembered the pang of regret he felt as he snuck out of their hotel room after watching her soundly sleeping for a couple of hours. However, he had a better idea of how she might have felt in the aftermath of those events. It was probably something closer to how he felt during the month when he thought her to be dead.

Then, he shut that little box and head out of that room, and found himself in his mind palace's dungeons. He didn't delete this memory as he thought the example of pain brought on by sentiment would scare him straight for good. But now, the memories of events he wishes never transpired are turning out to be useful. He opened up one of the darker cells that smelt of Irene. He remembered how he felt when he thought she had died. The betrayal, the sadness, the hurt, the anger. He remembered how furious he felt after he followed John into that abandoned building to learn that Irene wasn't dead. He remembered the numbness that paralyzed him as he heard Irene's long nail tapping away while typing him the text message that was supposed to inform him of her state. He remembered how he ran as fast as he could when his phone emitted the funny little ringtone she set for him.

Of course. How could he have been so oblivious? Well, he knew the answer to that. He never saw compassion as an advantage, but right now, it seemed as though it would really get him places.

He looked to Irene to see her already digging into her omelet. He looked down to his spot of the table and saw an omelet of his own, waiting for him to eat it up. Well, now that he thought about it, he did feel a bit peckish. He picked up his fork and picked up a piece of egg, holding it up for closer inspection. As he was busy giving it a look over, deducing how exactly long it had been cooked for and where the egg originated from while he was putting together what he just realized in words, Irene brushed her foot up against his calf once again, sending shivers down his spine. He looked up to her and took a bite, and she smiled.

They ate their eggs in complete silence, and as soon as she put her fork down after her final bite, he said, "You felt hatred. Pure unadulterated hatred because the one who you focused all your sentiment on went and left you high and dry. You hated me because I ran from you, just as you ran from me. But now, as I am here to stay, you think it'll be bearable for you to let your sentiment show." He lied smoothly about being there to stay. He knew he couldn't stay for long. He had things to get too, that's why he killed himself off to everyone he knows.

She smiled. "But Mr Holmes, flirting isn't a means by which I express any sort of emotion."  
"I am aware that it comes quite naturally to you, but having so much hatred makes one act strange." Then, suddenly something clicked in his head. Of course! How could he have been so dull as to miss THAT. He blamed it on the beating he gave himself against the wall. This lying business is proving to be more trouble that it's worth.

"And that is why you have two coats of wallpaper on your walls."

"I would have you right here on this table until you begged for mercy twice." Irene said, leaning forward on the table, echoing the words she said to him two years ago.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."  
"Twice.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Season 3 really messed me up, guys. Really. However, I can't help BUT think that they might actually canonically bring Irene back, since they're into bring people back when it never happened in the original stories. It probably won't happen, but hey, a girl can dream.**

Anyway, I hope you like where I'm going with this. Please keep leaving me your love, it really does make my day. Thank you for reading!

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They ordered the bill. Sherlock reached for it first but Irene snatched it out of his grasp and slipped a crisp $100 bill into the little plastic folder. Sherlock didn't protest. He didn't even have any money to pay for the food with anyway, so he slipped out of his seat and extended his arm to Irene who just rose out of hers. They walked out of the dinky little diner together, with other guests' eyes trailing behind the very exotic looking, high cheekboned and regal postured couple as they walked to their car. They all continued to watch, awestruck by their strikingly icy beautiful appearance, as Sherlock opened the door for Irene, and then hurried to his side of the car as she started the engine.

They drove in a comfortable silence. Sherlock was studying his surroundings intently as Irene drove to the nearest neat-looking tailor shop she could remember seeing. On their way they dropped buy a local department store where Sherlock bought himself some underwear and a pair of pajama pants that would do for the time being. When they reached the tailor, they went in and she watched as he was getting his lean physique measured. He barely spoke and was obviously thinking about something. She studied him as his eyes darted around as he was thinking, mouthing words as a little crease formed between his brows. He raised his arms above his head when the kind old lady who runs the shop asked him too, and Irene smiled. He is so beautiful, she remembered thinking that the he was so very very pretty the first time Jim sent her a picture of him. That's how she liked her men: pretty. She even decided that it was easier to like girls because pretty men were so hard to find, but she also liked brains, so that is why Sherlock is her ideal package. The tailor asked Sherlock to turn around, and Irene inspected his cute bum as the tailor wrapped her measuring tape around it. That bum is all hers now.

When Sherlock turned around, he looked Irene straight in the eye and gave her a little smile which made her mind stop whirring in unison with her heart. She smiled back at him. The tailor lady made him turn around again, and Irene was able to regain control of her mind when his eyes looked away from hers. She should probably order him some more underwear and sleepwear and other things, as the ones he bought were not going to be enough, but hopefully he won't be wearing them around her much.

She texted a personal shopper who's number she got in the mall two days ago as the tailor was finishing up with Sherlock, measuring the top of his left arm. She got an immediate reply from her which informed her that she'll have the new clothes sent to Irene's house, but she kept peeking up at Sherlock as he was talking with the tailor, telling her exactly what he wanted. She peeked up from the screen of her phone once again and saw Sherlock standing alone, waiting by the doorway with the same little crease between his brows making an alarming reappearance.

What could possibly be bothering him?

She walked up to the tailor lady and paid her in full right then, instructing her to have the new suits sent to her house. The lady very kindly agreed. Irene then walked towards Sherlock and out the door he was holding open. He didn't offer his arm, he only offered a look of deep thought that confused Irene and made her uncomfortable. He opened her car door but didn't look at her as he shut the door behind her.

He got in the car silently, pulling the seat belt across his chest. Irene fell silent as well, also thinking. The silence thickened the air as Irene drove on, throwing occasional glances at Sherlock on her way. He looked...confused. She wondered why. She gave him a look and saw him studying her, his thoughts kept behind a carefully constructed layer of his icy indifference.

Maybe if she shook him up a bit he might drop his little facade. That usually works.

She swerved the car onto the opposite side of the road and stomped on the gas pedal. The car roared and lunged forward. Sherlock let out an alarmed yell, and turned to put his arm around Irene, trying to stretch his leg over the gear shift to stomp on the breaks, but Irene kept going, very closely swerving from the path of the oncoming cars that had their right of way on the street. She then promptly stomped on the breaks as the car almost flew right up to a busy intersection. Sherlock fell back in his seat, and she was grinning maniacally.

"What the hell?" Sherlock bellowed, his thick, obviously shaken voice breaking as he yelled the word hell.

"I thought I should probably try to bring you back to the real world, and I couldn't think of a better way. Besides, this is a quicker way home." She said nonchalantly as she hit reverse and backed up the street a bit, then entered a little side path from a street connected to the main road and drove down it, swiftly turning into her parking garage.

He hopped right out of the car smoothly as soon as she switched the car's gear into park, already recovering from the little spike of adrenaline that had hit him because of Irene's unorthodox way of spicing up of things. He was only thinking, he does that all the time! She didn't wait for him to reach his side of the car, which he was walking to in order to open her door despite the scare she had just given him, and she hopped right out and stood right in his face. Their eyes met, but they stood in the Siberian March chill, staring each other down.

He then took her arm gingerly in an almost experimental manner and said, "It's cold. We should head inside."

"Tell me what you're thinking about." She said, twisting her arm out of his hand and instead putting her hands in his warm palm.

"Nothing in particular." He said as he pulled her towards the front door. He slipped her house keys out of the pocket of her coat and unlocked the door with one hand, keeping the other around hers. He then pulled her inside and shut the door behind him.

"You're hands are freezing! Why are they so cold?" He said as he slipped her coat off for her, hanging it in the coat closet, then doing the same to his.

"What were you thinking about." She said pointedly. She put her hands on her hips and watch Sherlock calculate something in his mind. He then put his hand around her face, his palm lightly touching her angular cheek, and tilted her head up to face him as he closed the space between them. He grabbed her by her waist and gently pulled her into the living room, he pulled her on top of him as he sat on the couch, and he pulled her face closer.

"You didn't answer my question" She said, unaffected.

"Well, maybe this is the answer to my question." He said as he pushed his face forward to have his lips meet hers. She didn't argue because this was probably the funner version of any possible answer he could've given her.

Besides, its not a crime to have a little bit of fun.

As Sherlock kissed Irene passionately, his hands running up and down her perfect body, he couldn't help but think about the nature of the half-truth he had just given Irene. He was thinking about her, but not in the way he made her believe. He slipped further down on the couch so Irene could get properly comfortable, and as she deepened the kiss, he suddenly forgot about how he was worried about how he might get bored, and how this high eventually wont be enough. He was thinking about how one day, he might have learned everything there is to know about Irene, about the feeling of love. He was worried about how he was supposed to keep up the lie. He did go through all that trouble to fake his death to get things done, of course. He managed to convince himself that he needed a well-needed vacation, and that if he'd give himself more time to sort out how he's going to come out with the truth, he could do it without hurting Irene.

But as he flipped around with Irene in his arms to pin her down on the couch as she was kissing his neck, he couldn't remember his previous worries. Maybe if he learned how to be persuasive enough, he could convince her that being mad isn't an option. Sherlock Holmes has always been a very persuasive man, however, learning a few new ways to do this, particularly Irene, is quite interesting and would hopefully prove to be helpful in the future.

Not that he had any problem with it, really.


	20. Chapter 20

The next morning, Irene awoke in an empty bed once again. Sherlock didn't like to sleep much at all. She got up and left the room heading downstairs to see him inspecting the peeling wall paper in one of the living room's top corners.

"It is kind of a sloppy job, but you know how it is." She said from behind him. He nodded and turned around.  
"Good morning, Miss Adler."  
"Mr Holmes." She walked up to him and gave him a look.

"It wasn't too obvious was it?"  
"It's actually a clever fix." He said, looking down at her and giving her a tender smile. Looking into his eyes reminded her of what she was thinking about the night before, just before she fell asleep. He was humming something in her ear, an unfamiliar tune, and he was lightly twisting his arm that lay under her, almost as if he was conducting an experiment on whether or not it is possible for someone to wiggle their arms out from under someone without being detected. She should've probably told him the outcome of this little experiment, but she was too busy being alarmed by thinking about why he was preoccupied. He was obviously thinking about a thousand different things as she was trying to fall asleep, and why else would he do that if he wasn't bored, or on the verge of being bored?

He took her hand gently and interrupted her thoughts. She smiled at him as he pulled her into the living room and sat her down on the couch.  
"I'll make us some tea." He said. The morning paper was already on the coffee table, so she picked it up and pretended to read it as she carried on with her thinking. The first page was especially wrinkled. It had a story on a surprising murder that shook the little town she lives in. How quaint. Sherlock probably figured it all out, but what would he do with that information? She read the article and saw how simple the answer was. Even the crimes here are boring!

How is Sherlock ever going to stay?

She hated the way he made her think. She was never weak and vulnerable in her life. Even as a child, she ensured she was always on top. Sure, it was tough as her childhood wasn't typical and was more along the lines of what some would consider to be tragic, but she didn't think it to be tragic. She actually considers it to be more of a learning experience. It's where she learned how to always come up on top, or run if there was no way to be on top. How could she be on top of Sherlock, not in a sexual way thought because she's already got that down, but how could she beat him?

She was well aware of the fact that relationships shouldn't be about beating each other to see who's the best, but that's just how she's always lived her life. She was quite sure Sherlock felt the same in one way or another. Her cunning and manipulative nature isn't one to allow her to simply want to only live and enjoy a person. She wasn't one for being domestic, and neither was Sherlock Holmes. He probably knew it too.

In fact, he was thinking about this topic right in that moment, as he was watching Irene's reflection in the cupboard's glass door, waiting for the water of the tea to boil. She obviously worked out that he solved the case of the murder that is troubling all the simple-minded people in the town he made her home in. He probably should've picked a place with more action. That way she'd at least have a distraction of some sort around her. She was obviously bored, why else would she write those ridiculous erotic novels of hers? He wasn't one to judge though, as he used to start shooting at his walls when he got bored or sad.

The kettle switched off and he poured the boiling water into the two sugarless tea cups. He wouldn't pry because he knew she figured he knows what she's thinking anyway, and if he prompted her to voice her thoughts, she'd probably lie, and lie very well too. She has trust issues, as obvious from the way she doesn't take sugar in her tea. He remembered that one time when he realized that it would be so easy to slip anything into sugar on the Baskerville case, that's why he stopped putting sugar in his tea. However, Irene must have this certain aversion to sugar because she has probably done some drug slipping via sugar in the past. He wouldn't put it past her.

So he went into the room and handed her her cup of tea. He sat really close to her. He was no longer alarmed by physical intimacy. He was no longer alarmed by many things. The past year has taught him a plethora of important lessons, and one of them was how not to pry, because when one pries, the information they want to receive may or may not be completely accurate. He leaned over Irene to reach for the remote, and when he sat upright once more, Irene put her sugarless tea on the table and propped herself up on the knees so she can study the little scar on Sherlock's forehead more clearly.

She took his cheeks in her cold hands which where warmer by the palm because of the tea she was just holding and tilted his head downward. The scar was healed, she had to take out the stitch.

"I'll be right back." She said. She went to go wash her hands and find a pair of scissors and tweezers.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and ran his fingers over the stitches in his forehead. He didn't notice them once, but it was probably because he was quite preoccupied beforehand. She was quite obviously not preoccupied right now. She was getting bored. She came back in with a pair of tweezers and scissors that smelts strongly of disinfectant. He set his tea cup on the coffee table. This was going to be irksome.

"Hold very very still, Sherlock." She said softly as she got to work. He felt his scar tingle as Irene dabbed something cold on his forehead. He then heard the delicate snip of the scissors, then he felt a sting as Irene gently pulled the first section of the stitch out of his forehead. He winced internally, thinking that he did deserve this pain for being such a dreadful lying scumbag, but Irene undeservedly made up for the pain she had just inflicted on him by giving him a light, unexpected kiss on the little scar on his forehead before covering it with a bandaid.

The tenderness of that gesture startled Sherlock. It was the first time where she was clearly the one to initiate the tender behavior. It made him feel strange. She then set the tools she used to get the stitch out of Sherlock's forehead on the coffee table beside her tea and straddled Sherlock.

"It's odd how I haven't seen how battered the rest of you is in daylight." She said as she started to pull his shirt up above his head. She wasn't doing this to be cute or anything, she just wanted answers, information.

Granted, she was a bit out of practice, but she still knew how to get what she wanted.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock's mind went blank as Irene pulled his shirt above his head, but he immediately regained control of it as he started realizing that he knew what she was doing. She did it once before, and during that one time that he let himself be fooled, he never felt like more of an idiot. He felt an instant bitterness and began feeling like an idiot again. God knows what she wanted from him. Was she playing him this entire time? Could he really be so stupid? He shouldn't really feel so bad about her having to resort to such measures, he's the one who's been lying left and right. But what could she possibly gain from manipulating him? He had nothing to offer! Maybe she was going to sell him off for some type of bounty, but he couldn't be sure without more proof, maybe he could break into her computer later. However, it was important for him to not let her know that he was on to her.

But as he watched her face fall when she first lied her eyes on the yellowing bruises that were covering a better part of his chest, it was as if shards of chilly culpability were being driven straight through his heart and twisting it around. Her not knowing that his lie is a lie was causing her pain already, and he didn't even get to telling her that he had been lying to her! Why else would she resort to manipulation unless she felt as though she couldn't get the answers she wanted by being transparent? She wasn't planning on selling him off to anyone, because, as the look on her face just sharply reminded him, he made sure that everyone thought he was dead. He raised his arm to stroke her face, and attempted to lift it to avert her gaze from the fake bruises he gave himself to make fabricating this story that was causing her distress easier to believe. He would burst if she didn't stop it, and bursting didn't seem like the best solution to his predicament. But her head didn't budge, so he dropped his arm right back down to his side.

She didn't like seeing him all battered and bruised. One would think that in her line of work, she wouldn't be alarmed by seeing a body covered in bruises. But this, this was extremely different. This was the result of running, clear as day. She never saw the effects of running on anyone but herself and always scolded herself for thinking of it as being so very difficult. She is Irene Adler, she isn't allowed to find anything difficult. But now, seeing someone as inhuman as Sherlock really physically effected by running, made her feel something she couldn't quite identify churn and flip around in the pit of her stomach.

She lightly traced the outlines of Sherlock's bruises with her fingertips and imagined him hitting the sidewalk and playing dead. He told her he really did pass out for a second, probably because his body needed a way to deal with the pain of his entire weight hitting the concrete after a multiple story fall. She looked up to him and he studied her eyes that were full of worry. She rested her cheek on his chest and sighed, breathing in his clean, sharp scent. Sherlock relaxed and put his arms around her as she thought and thought and thought.

Then, she broke the silence with a little whisper.

"Are you bored?" So THAT'S what she chocked his peculiar behavior up to be. She may be clever, but he is a really good liar.

He set his cheek on the top of her head and sighed. His sigh sounded strange to Irene, almost like relief. Was he relieved that she was the one to bring it up first?  
"Are you?" He asked monotonously.

She pulled her head out from underneath his and then kissed him full on the lips. She didn't know why she did that, but she felt like he needed it, like it was his turn for some reassurance even though he might behave like he doesn't need it because, as she was taking of his shirt, she saw something flash in his eyes. Shock, surprise, and something else masked by an ominous darkness falling over his eyes that matched the one that shrouded his pain when he finally cracked the code on his phone. He was always good at hiding what he really thought when he put his mind to it, and she knew it. He thought she was pulling one of her old tricks on him once more, like the one that wounded his pride and made him look like a complete fool. Little did she know that she was the one being taken for a fool. Even though she just straight up asked him about what was worrying her, it doesn't seem as though she was going to be getting an answer soon if she doesn't stop what's going on right now. She considered asking him later as he deepened the kiss, putting his large hand gingerly on the back of her neck, and the other on the small of her back as he leaned forward, holding her in place.

Somehow, she found it in herself to gently pull away.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Are you bored?"  
"Not at the moment, no." He said as he started kissing her neck gently, but she used one of the hands to grab on to his head and pull his head away so their eyes could meet.

"So that implies that you expect to find yourself bored sooner or later."  
He let out a guttural little growl that sent shivers down Irene's spine. "Must we discuss this right now?"  
She took a deep breath and said, "Yes."

He threw himself back against the cushions of the sofa and said, "Fine. I probably will get bored soon," he said, following the lead she had handed him wrapped in a little bow, "but I know how to fix that quite quickly, so don't go on worrying about me."

She reached behind her for her teacup and grabbed the closest one. Sherlock watched her and raised an eyebrow as she took a sip.

"That's my cup."  
"Oh, like it matters."

In one swift movement, he snatched the tea cup from her hands and threw it against the wall. The sound of the tea cup shattering into bits didn't alarm Irene.

"Shame. I really liked that china set. How am I supposed to go on using it if I have one piece missing?" She just out her lower lip in a little mock pout.

"When I get really bored, I'll go buy you another." Sherlock said as he leaned against the couch and put both his hands against Irene's back, pushing her towards towards. She let out a little scoff.

"As if."  
"Try me. I'm into all sorts of domestic trifles now. I'll bet everyone but me would find it really funny." She let out a peal of laughter as Sherlock pulled her into him for another very steamy kiss.

The doubt they both previously had for each other evaporated as their bodies moved in unison. Neither of them could fathom a time when this could possibly be boring.


	22. Chapter 22

However, they both did eventually get bored, and china shopping wasn't enough to keep either of them entertained.

After months of reading each other, learning every little detail of one another, it got boring. Sure, the intimacy was fun, but it lost its thrill. They both needed something to keep them preoccupied, that is just how they function. Irene's writing sometimes kept her preoccupied, but it was never really mentally stimulating. She didn't used to want to feel anything before, so she was fine with being unsatisfied. Now it was different, and she was bored.

Sherlock was just as bored as well. He thought he would be fine with taking it easy, but he has always firmly believed that great minds like his shouldn't go to waste. And it sure is hard to just give up your life's philosophy after pretending like you're dead, and especially when you know you have some itchingly intriguing things to get to doing. Sure, Irene was making some use of her brilliant mind to write those ridiculous novels of hers, although he thought her most recent one wasn't as terrible as the ones before. He was aware of the genius behind them: writing drabble to cater to the whims of those willing to buy loads of books for the easy to follow sappy romances sprinkled with unrealistic erotica that they so wish they could have in real life, but he knew that wasn't enough for Irene. He was also sure as hell knew that he has reached a point where he is bored out of his brain.

After the first 3 months of him learning everything there is to know about love, about Irene; after he had gotten enough when he thought he never could, the boredom started to set. He would look through the local paper and read about any unsolved cases. Most of them were almost transparent, and he would send the local police force anonymous emails from an account that wasn't too difficult to set up, seeing as he had mastered the art of computer programing, a thing he had dabbled in before, after having extensively researched the topic online and buying a multitude of books using the gift cards Irene receives from various book publishers and stores. He had completely mastered the intricacies of 9 different languages, including all the dialects of Arabic and most sub-saharan tribal speech, learned countless pieces for the french horn and piano completely by heart, he also composed a few dozen symphonies while he was at it. He'd also been getting weekly emails from Mycroft, who had helped him gather the information on Moriarty's network and ensured a way for him to safely detach himself from the world to be able to get to work, about his progress. He'd told him he was taking some time off at the moment, and Mycroft didn't ask any questions, thank the heavens.

He also learned how to cook, which was kind of useless seeing as he doesn't particularly enjoy eating. But Irene does. She loves food, and he loves her. She particularly enjoys dinner. He learned how to do that well too.

Love is a funny word. He used to despise the word before Irene showed him what it truly meant. He never had a whole lot of love in his life, even as a child. He never learned about the merits of intimacy, the pros of caring for someone and having them care in return. The only people who he had remotely felt this way about before Irene was for John, however that type of love was purely platonic and wasn't near as potent as the way he felt for Irene.

It wasn't that his feelings for Irene wasn't enough, they just weren't as all encompassing as it was in the first few months, and she felt the same way too. When you learn all there is to learn about something, the excitement dies away. Especially when the temptation of another source of excitement is always nagging you in the back of your mind.

Now, every time Irene curled up in his arms, or Irene kissed his jaw, or Irene explored his body, he didn't feel a rush of excitement because nothing was new. It was all more of the same. That is why he started solving those ridiculous local crimes, but they too eventually got oh so very boring. That's why he started picking up the national papers. They usually only published stories on the more interesting stuff, stuff that were probably a product of the criminal network he'd staged his death to go after. However, those papers usually skimped out on important details on the cases. It especially bothered him because he knew that if he got straight to the action, he'd know the exact details and would be able to come up with a solution, a take down strategy. Irene knew the extent of his irritation, and after trying to console him with dinner once or twice with that only being a partial fix, she had a better idea.

One night, when they had just had their evening meal, Irene was sitting beside Sherlock on the sofa as they watched a report on the national nightly news about a string of suspicious murders in New York City, she noticed how his jaw tightened.  
"A bit obvious, isn't it?" She said as she leaned into him. His arms received her enthusiastically as he said, "I have 8 ideas so far."

"Its a shame they don't give many details though." She said as she rest her head in the crook of his neck.

"Hmm."  
"I could get them. Wouldn't it be interesting." Sherlock tenses under her.

Silence.

She got up and reached for her phone but she felt Sherlock also get up and put his hand around her wrist in a restraining manner. She twisted it free and unlocked her phone.

"Irene."  
"Oh please." She said as opened up her phone and went on the Delta Airways website to book two first class tickets to New York City for a Mr and Mrs Smith. Sherlock watched her with a steel glint in his eyes. He knew that she knew what she was doing, but it didn't make him feel any less ill at ease. She was putting herself out there, just like he wanted to do, but he couldn't imagine her doing it. He used to relish the feeling of being struck by adrenaline, he used to crave it so much he'd willingly throw himself into the path of danger. That was the best fix to being bored, but now throwing Irene in the path of danger because he was bored only made his stomach flip around nervously.

Irene locked her phone and dropped her hands to her side as Sherlock sat stonily on the couch, not moving an inch with he held his hands in front of his face, linked by the touching of the fingertips. He's going into one of his moods again. She groaned and walked towards him. She pulled his hands apart, but he didn't look up at her; he was lost in his thoughts. He was thinking about how he was a danger to everyone he cared about. Before, it didn't matter to him, but after learning about the virtues of caring, he couldn't stop worrying in ways he never had before.

He went into his mind palace, into the smallest, most private room where he stored all his most treasured memories, and singled out a big blue box. He imagined opening it and saw John's blog. It wasn't so hard for him to figure out the password to enter the admin page from when he first met John and John hadn't changed it since. Sherlock still checks up on the blog every once in a while, to keep tabs on John, but recently, it's only gotten sadder and sadder. Sherlock was able to read all the hateful comments that people left on John's blog that he'd deleted. Sherlock felt the waves of agony and melancholy that where leaking out of John's words whenever he'd type up one of their older cases, just so John could keep Sherlock alive in his head, in his heart.

Irene rolled her eyes and said, "I'm off to pack my bags, I know you'll do the same because this is just too interesting." Sherlock watched her as she walked away and sighed. He closed that blue box, then added a few chains and a padlock for good measure. He locked it and imagined himself throwing it out of one of the hulking floor to ceiling windows and watched it as it disappeared into the grass below. He knew that he'd eventually go look for after he's done with what he did to cause all of John's pain completely, because he couldn't help but go back and torture himself with the thought of hurting his best friend. He'll never forget.

Sentiment will obviously really be his biggest downfall as it made all his weak points all the more vulnerable. However, sentiment has made him all the more ferocious about protecting those weak spots. It's not just about him genuinely caring anymore. But when he followed Irene up the stairs and took a peak at her figure excitedly throwing things out of the wardrobe and into a travel bag, he couldn't help but think that his ferocity wasn't purely selfish as he cracked a little smile.


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: Hey guys! I feel as though I'm kind of hitting a bit of a rough patch so I would love it if you gave me your feedback on what you think of how I'm having things play out. I'd really appreciate it. Thanks for reading! **

* * *

A few days later they found themselves on a plane to New York. They sat on two very plush, wide seats side by side in first class. They didn't eat the complementary nuts that they were given, but instead they ordered a glass of champagne each. A silent toast to their return to the game. They didn't speak much throughout the flight as they were both deep in thought. The only contact they had was their touching elbows. The comfortable silence hung between them until the pilot announced that they will be landing as the pilot's voice crackling from above her head tore Irene's attention away from her thoughts. She turned to look at Sherlock for the first time they boarded the plane and saw him staring at a blank space on the cabin wall, his hands held together under his chin in his signature thoughtful pose.

Irene was thinking about her old life again before she was so rudely pulled away from all the good memories. She was thinking about how she rose to the top: how she was the muse of so many artists, the downfall of so many men who thought they ruled the world but payed her for a proper scolding with not only cash, but also with valuable information; information that would propel her to the top of the food chain. Now, after being knocked down and reaping the benefits of her losses, she can now rise once more. The only problem was that she was dead. Man, she didn't know how much she missed the thrill of being on top till she really had the time to mull it over.

Coming back from the dead wouldn't be a problem for her. She was sure Sherlock was going to go crazy by being dead eventually anyway. Suppressing one's genius sitting at home all day does tend to do that to a person. So why shouldn't she start to take the precautions needed to plan a foolproof plan for their return to the land of the living, or rather to be able to live on the radar as Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler once more. Sherlock's gloom was depressingly obvious although he tried very hard to not let on. She noticed the way he'd shut the laptop every time she'd go into the room. Once she was able to catch a quick glimpse of the page he was on: John's blog. She saw him looking sad when he thought she wasn't watching. She knew what he was thinking about when he would tense up as he held her as she fell asleep, as he still only rarely slept. She was the complete opposite of stupid and he knew it, but he wouldn't do anything about how he was feeling because he loves her. He loves her, and this love for her is making him be something he isn't; this love for her is hurting him.

Sure she enjoyed hurting people in the past, but sentiment makes people act funny. She touched his hand and he turned to look at her, cracking a small smile. She smiled back and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. Irene started to think about what she had been unconsciously thinking about for the past 3 months, after the bliss that was a direct result of the good bits of sentiment. She then started to really work out a way for them to both find a way to come back from the dead that could possibly work. Maybe they could work together and finish off the last of Moriarty's web of criminals. She knew all about that, she did entertain a few of those on upper tiers of the organization a while back, and she had them talk. One could never have too much insurance...

The captain announced that they have landed and that the plane doors have been opened. Sherlock's hand disappeared from under hers and she was once again so rudely torn away from her thoughts. She looked up to see Sherlock pulling their suitcases down from the overhead compartment. She got up from her very comfortable seat and snatched her suitcase from under Sherlock while he was taking his down in case he felt like carrying hers. His manners are quite impeccable, most would probably be quite surprised.

They walked out of the plane side by side, right out of the airport and straight into a cab that would drive them to the middle of Manhattan. They both sat in silence again, with the only contact between them being their hands touching. They were both thinking deeply about their next move. They watched as the big bustling city of New York got bigger and more all encompassing. After about a half hour of driving, they got there. Irene payed the cabbie as Sherlock went to the trunk of the car to retrieve their luggage. They walked up to the Plaza hotel; Irene's favorite in all of New York City. Irene knew she'd probably be recognized, but it was all part of her plan to resurface: the one she'd just come up with. She was really going to do it too, and she wasn't even worried about having to force Sherlock to resurface along with her because what choice would he have after she'd been recognized.

She couldn't take his moping around much longer, and she was let herself feel a big of smug triumph at her impromptu genius solution.

She took a deep breath, threw her back straight, and did her old strut, one she hadn't done in a while. Sherlock raised his eyebrow but followed her in anyway. He thought it was strange and was trying to figure out why she would do that, but as soon as he saw the bellboy's face drop as Irene led him into the lobby, it clicked. What the hell was she doing?

He grabbed her by the arm and turned her around to ask her that very same question, but she flipped his arm behind his back, making him wince in pain. She leaned over to whisper, "Play along. This is important." He gave her a very questioning look as she leaned away to look into his eyes, and she leaned in once more and said, "Think. It's the new sexy."

She released his arm and he felt the blood rush back into it as she resumed her strut towards the front desk.  
"Mademoiselle... Adler?" said a bald man with grey eyes, a hooked nose, and a badge pinned to his expensive charcoal suit that read "Hotel Manager Pierre Jacques", in obvious shock. He looked as though he'd just seen a ghost, which he kind of did.

"Aah, Pierre. So nice to see a friendly face. I'll take my usual suite thanks."  
"B-but?"  
"Is there a problem?" She said, cocking her head to the side and setting her mouth in a concerned line. This face usually scared those who were aware of the way she dealt with problems.

"Erm.. of-of course not, Mademoiselle Adler. Please, right this way." He said shakily, stepping out from behind the desk, taking a golden key card off of it as he led the way towards the private elevator that leads right to the Empress Suite; they renamed it at Irene's request back in her glory days. Pierre snapped at one of the bellboys who promptly scrambled to take Sherlock and Irene's luggage from their hands. Irene couldn't help but feel big and bad again, and BOY did she miss it.

The four of them got into the elevator after Pierre slid the golden card into the slot where the elevator's button panel is supposed to be, and it started moving up. Irene and Sherlock stood at the back of the elevator, and Pierre and the bellboy stood at the front. Pierre was examining Sherlock curiously in the reflection of the gold-gilded interior of the elevator as it climbed higher and higher towards the suite, and it looked as though Pierre recognized him, which isn't surprising as his face was plastered all over the news a while back. Irene had to act quick to make Sherlock look like one of her usual customers.

She leaned into him and stood on her tiptoes to stage whisper, "Well, Mr Smith, I can't wait to help you unwind and relax and have you tell me all about your hard day at work on Wall Street. You know how I love stories.", in his ear. Sherlock immediately caught on as he too was concerned with the way the hotel manager was looking at him. Irene's save was a good one: normal people usually don't question any information that they think is verified by the source, they never ask for the proof. This man didn't look like he was willing to ask Irene for anything as he seems to know what's good for him. Sherlock just chuckled and leaned down, whispering, "I wouldn't have it any other way, Ms Adler." in an American accent.

The door dinged open and the bellboy rushed quite nervously into the room to set the things on the floor, hurriedly running back to the elevator after doing so. Something about Irene Adler sets him on edge, and for a good reason too. He will probably never forget walking in on her as she hoisted a bound, naked man upside down from the ceiling. Pierre silently handed her the key to the door and she nodded her farewell as he rushed out of the suite too. As soon as the elevator doors shut, Irene burst into guffaws, while Sherlock stonily examined the room. As soon as Irene stopped laughing, she sat down in her favorite familiar armchair that was in the center of the graceful room.

It felt good to be back.


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock didn't feel the same way though. He felt really irritated.

"What the hell was that all about? You're supposed to be dead and gone, remember?" He said coldly as he started pacing the spacious, golden room. Everything was decorated in various shades of gold, giving the air a feeling of grandness.

"Well, I'm about to come back to life, and so are you." She said as she leaned back in the plush armchair.

"Really?"  
"Oh don't act like you haven't thought about it. You're just as irritated by being bored as I am, Sherlock, and you know it." He stopped in his tracks.

"Don't even try to pretend that you're not constantly bored. There's nothing to do! Minds like ours shouldn't be put to waste. You even say it yourself."

"So you decided to stop being bored by outing yourself to the world."  
"Well, I had to start somewhere. Besides, Pierre is hardly the world."  
"Please, that man is obviously reporting back to someone important. I noticed the cuffs of his suit jacket, his nervous tremor, and the very telling signs on the soles of his shoes."

"And I knew you would, but I didn't think you'd assume that I don't know what I'm doing. I'm quite insulted, really."  
He turned around to look at her as she sat back in her comfortable armchair, raising an eyebrow.

"Instead of questioning my intelligence and judgement, think." She said pointedly as she leaned down to take off her shoes.

Then it hit him. She's manipulating his sentiment. She's forcing him back out into the world because she is and she knows how he would go to ridiculous and irrational extents to protect her. And by outing herself and forcing him to protect her, she is effectively giving him a way to stay with her and get done with the thing he'd faked his death for! By revealing to Pierre that she is actually alive, she told most of Moriarty's crime network as well. They know she's still there, and that she's not to be messed with. Maybe they'll think she'll want her revenge on the man who made her go into hiding for so long, but he knows that they know that they're certainly in trouble, and they should try their damned best to eliminate the source of their potential downfall as soon as they can. The best part is that she thinks she's the one controlling everything, twisting his arm into the adventure he's been dying to get to. He literally killed himself off so he can get started with this! She even unknowingly rid him of the guilt that's been keeping him from going through the steps that would allow him to return to his old life, and possibly ensuring that she could come along with him. He, of course, thought of this entire scenario more than once, as it was the reason for him doing what he did, but he was so afraid to break her heart again. The only heart he'd be the only man with the key to. It seems as though sentiment has turned him into a man wary of danger, but boredom has had the opposite effect on Irene, making her gutsier than ever. Although putting her in the line of obvious and deadly threat wasn't part of his original plans, this solution was quite better. She knew how to take care of was very impressed at how she managed to pull this stunt without him realizing it; of how she took advantage of his distraction and ended up giving him the perfect solution for his predicament wrapped in a pretty pink bow. He started thanking his lucky stars a million times over in his head for the perfect way things turned out.

Suddenly, he was interrupted from his thoughts as he felt himself being pulled to his left and pushed onto the comfortable chair. Irene then straddled him, cupping his face in her hands as she gave him a knowing smile.

"You can take whips out of the girls hand, but that wont make her any less of a dominatrix." He throatily whispered. His thinking came to a violent stop as Irene started unbuttoning his top. The little smile that wrought its way across her lips was absolutely enticing.

"You better never question anything I do ever again, Mr Holmes." She said as she started to slowly rake her nails down Sherlock's chest, and he groaned his agreement. He put his arms around her waist and started kissing her neck, prompting her to start scratching him harder.

And although it was only about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, Sherlock and Irene treated themselves to an early dinner before they set out to work.

* * *

However, Sherlock's luck was about to run out.

After having agreed that they should both get to work, he and Irene had agreed to go their separate ways for now: Irene was off to "meet" with Pierre in the lobby and extract contact information from him so they could get started on the dismantling of Moriarty's network, and Sherlock was headed to the NYPD station with a nifty little CIA badge he'd made for himself so he could get all the details on the interesting murder case that brought them there in the first place. Sherlock now knows that it wasn't the real reason that brought Irene here, and as Irene followed Sherlock straight out of the lobby without him noticing, she was about to find out that he had different motives for coming to New York too. He did something strange as they stepped into the elevator though: he gave her a funny look, one she'd rather not assign a trait to, a look that made her heart sink and made the hairs on her arm stand on end. She sure hoped her gut was lying to her. But just to be certain, she decided to go through with what she had to do. Irene never was too trusting, because it's those who are stupidest that are the most trusting after all.

After bidding her an attempted good-bye kiss with her rejecting it with a hand to his face, stopping it from getting close to hers (they had to keep up their little roleplaying facade up, after all) he dejectedly exited the lobby as she turned around and headed for the empty front desk, but as soon as she heard his familiar light footsteps completely exit her earshot, she spun around and hurried to the exit herself. She watched as he got into a cab from where she stood at the entrance of the hotel, and it immediately sped off into the unfamiliar streets of New York. She slid her phone open and tapped on an app that displayed a map of New York with a little red dot that showed her where Sherlock was, heading in the opposite direction from the little marker she set that denoted where the NYPD building is. She'd always had her doubts, and that's why she'd bugged his phone two and a half months ago with a GPS signaler. She vehemently hoped that her gut feeling wasn't wrong, but it appears that her stupid sentiment has made her into a fool once more.

She raised her hand to hail a cab and three immediately swerved towards the sidewalk she was standing on. She hopped in the first one that parked nearest to her and handed him her phone through the little slit of the glass partition separating them, telling him to follow the little red dot. The taxi driver sped off as she looked out the window and thoughts. She was planning out exactly how she would react to what she was probably going to see, according to all the only fathomable outcomes she could draw. All she could do was think and feel furious, completely and absolutely furious.

As she lost herself while thinking about how big of an idiot she'd been, the cab pulled up at a posh looking hotel called the "Chelsea Pines Inn". The cabbie immediately handed her her phone through the little slit, and she slid him a $50 bill in return, hopping out while muttering "Keep the change." She stepped into the hotel as the doorman held the door open for her and headed straight to the front desk.

"Um hello, excuse me?" She said in her best American accent, making sure to make her tone of voice sounded nothing like its usual assertive and demanding manner. A man came out from a door behind the desk and smiled at Irene.

"Yes, how may I help you."

"Um, my boss walked in here about 15 minutes ago? He has a meeting but he forgot his phone, and he has pretty urgent calls to take so I kind of need to get it to him? Could you be so kind as to tell me where he is? He's a tall guy, black curly hair, wearing a black suit, and umm, yes! Cheekbones. Really cheekboney." She said sweetly as the man scanned her with his eyes. Her outfit wasn't exactly the typical secretary get up, but the man didn't seem to find that suspicious as he said, "Oh yeah, he's in meeting room 3 on the 29th floor. Do you need anyone to show you the way or-"  
"Oh no, thanks, I can find my way on my own. Thanks for all your help!" She said perkily as she made a little run towards the elevator to make her look like the flustered secretary she was pretending to be. However, as soon as the elevator doors slid shut, her face fell flat into a mask of forced indifference as she pressed the button that propelled her to the 29th floor. It lurched upward and kept going straight up, not stoping once. It dinged open and she gingerly stepped out into the very quiet floor's entryway. She found door three and walked up to it very quietly.

It was closed, but she heard some faded voices arguing on the inside; one was painfully familiar, and the other rang a bell. A bell she wished she could smash into smithereens. She turned around and went into the empty conference room behind her and knocked on the wall. It was obviously paper thin, and that was going to be very useful to her. She walked up to the little table right near the door that had a tray with a pitcher of water and some glasses on it and picked up one of the glasses. She then promptly left the room and went into the room right to the left of Conference Room 3. She put the open side of the glass to the wall and put her ear on the other end and could hear the conversation very clearly, but oh how she wished she couldn't.

"So you've been hiding out near in the middle of nowhere literally getting nothing done? I thought you would be more eager to get to work, dear brother, as you seemed to be so excited to leave that you opted for the most dramatic of all my solutions."  
"I chose the most reasonable one, Mycroft. You can be such a drama queen sometimes." Sherlock. Sherlock is meeting with Mycroft. Sherlock isn't playing dead to everyone like he told her he was. He wasn't stranded and alone. Sherlock fooled her. He beat her yet again when she thought that by letting him in, she wouldn't have to ever worry about being beaten again.

Sherlock lied.

The numbness she thought was gone for good made another greatly unwanted appearance, slowly trickling through her body like a thick, bitter poison. Sherlock lied. But, why?  
"Honestly, death has made you rather lazy, hasn't it?"  
"I thought I deserved a good holiday. Dying is quite tiring."  
"Is it now?"

Then, there was silence.

"Now, I'm ready to get to business. I presume you have the information I need?"

"Certainly." There was the sound of papers shuffling.  
"Is this it?"  
"What did you expect?"  
"A little more research on your part would have been nice."  
"That would entail field work. You know I'm not particularly fond of that type of work. But you are, and you've been lazy. Get to it, brother mine."

"Oh, I have more of a head start than you may realize. You seem to forget, brother dear, that I have never taken a day off in my life."

She pulled away from the wall and dropped her arm to her side as the arguing on the other side of the wall continued. That was why Sherlock came to her. He knew everything, he's Sherlock Holmes after all. He knew she would eventually want to get out into the world and go on a great big adventure. He could read everyone and everything like a book after all. She was the head start that he had, the one that made playing this game extra fun. He played her. So now, she was about to play him right back.

She set the glass she used for her eavesdropping on the room's conference table and walked straight to the elevator. Although everything, every feeling, everything she allowed herself to believe to be true is now banging against the inside of her head, rattling like stones. She held her composure as she planned her latest daring escape. Irene knows how to run, and she knows how to do it well. Hopefully, she can inflict enough damage while running to get the justice she deserves.


End file.
